


Darkroom

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaos, Childhood Memories, Conflict, Dark Comedy, Don’t copy to another site, Drama, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Dysfunctional Family, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Family, First Time, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Friendship, Fucked Up, Gotham City Police Department, Guilt, Healthy Relationships, Heroes to Villains, Humor, Intrigue, Jewish Character, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Memories, Multi, Obsession, POV Alternating, POV Bruce Wayne, POV Joker (DCU), POV Outsider, Plot Twists, References to Canon, Repressed Memories, Responsibility, Season/Series 05, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Unhealthy Relationships, Vigilantism, Villains, Villains to Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-12 18:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “An ultimatum, then,” [Jeremiah] said with startling gravitas. “I won’t just be your plaything. This isn’t a game, I’ve put it all on the line, and I won’t just do whatever you want forscrapsanymore, Bruce. I’ve given you all of myself, and now? I need all ofyou.”“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Bruce asked helplessly, despising himself for having lost control.“Bruce,” Jeremiah sighed almost tenderly, scrabbling above his head. He brought a shard of scrap-metal up against Bruce’s throat. “My lover, my heart. My fearless Jack of Spades. Figure it out.”Bruce delivered a skull-cracking blow to the side of Jeremiah’s head before he could press the metal into Bruce’s throat any harder, rolling off him in sheer exhaustion.





	1. Darkroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This opening story / installment is a birthday present for my dearest [one-eyed-bossman](https://one-eyed-bossman.tumblr.com/), without whose tireless encouragement the night we watched 5x07 and got pissed-off beyond all reason, I might not have written this AU.

The tunnel continued for a mile or more, its meticulously-wired electric lights flickering occasional warning. Bruce ran his gloved fingers along its rough walls, as much to convince himself that it was real as to determine how it had been dug. The work must have taken months.

Bruce spotted what looked like the back-side of a hearth’s brick and mortar before the music registered. Melancholy strings, simultaneously soothing and fraught with tension. As he drew closer, the murmur of voices dissolved into the warped, half-remembered quality of a dream.

What met him on emerging from the fireplace more closely resembled a nightmare. His father’s ghost made flesh bent to hand a glass of Sauternes to his mother, whispering affectionately in her ear. Their laughter was too like his parents’ for comfort, but not similar enough.

“Who are you?” Bruce demanded, taking only a few halting steps forward. He didn’t dare approach them.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” said the woman. If not for the restraint of her timbre, she would’ve sounded for all the world like Martha Wayne.

“Hello, champ,” greeted the imitation of his father, with an aloof air that further ruined the illusion.

Alfred entered the room—real Alfred, _his_ Alfred—before he could respond. “Master Bruce!”

Bruce turned to him, reaching as his chest flooded with sheer relief. “Alfred, how did you—”

“Look at the state of you,” Alfred chided, brushing at Bruce’s coat with disapproval. “What have I told you about rolling around in the muck?”

“Alfred, what’s going on?” Bruce asked, fully aware he wasn’t dreaming. “Who are these people?”

“Whatever do you mean, Bruce?” asked the facsimile of Thomas, sounding nothing like himself.

“We’re your parents,” the woman sighed, airily fond. Her impression of Martha remained sedate.

Alfred patted Bruce on the back. “Well, let’s get you spruced up. After all, we have a guest.”

In the corner behind Bruce’s left shoulder, formerly out of view, another specter sat in a side-chair.

Jeremiah Valeska cut as vivid a figure as ever. From his serene, unsettling grin to the glass of Sauternes in his hand, his posture projected belonging. The dark dinner jacket and pinstripe trousers were tamer than his usual; the magenta shirt and shimmering red tie were not.

“Welcome home, Bruce,” he said, raising his glass with one violet-gloved hand, taking a sip.

Dizzily, Bruce revisited the question of whether or not he was asleep. “Jeremiah. You’re alive.”

Jeremiah laughed and rose, crossing in front of the window. The sunset didn’t pass through him.

“Well, you didn’t think Selina could kill me so easily, did you?” he asked, pausing to glance at Bruce, almost flirtatious. “I just had to put you off my scent until I could finalize my…project.”

Bruce wasn’t sure whether his surge of anger was fueled by grief or hate, but Alfred restrained him.

“Manners, Master Bruce,” Alfred said as Jeremiah fled across the room. “Let’s not be rude to our guest.”

“Especially when I come bearing gifts,” Jeremiah warned. He drew a sheet of black fabric off a homemade bomb—which was well within his purview, and no ghostly jest.

“Oh, Mr. Jeremiah,” Alfred said, persisting in a level of obliviousness that couldn’t be natural. “A cake. How exceedingly thoughtful of you. Is it Italian meringue?”

Jeremiah beamed whimsically at Bruce, grin widening, and then shifted his gaze to Alfred. “Sure.”

“Oh,” Alfred faltered, sounding for one hopeful moment like he doubted what he had been told.

Unable to contain his fury any longer, Bruce advanced on Jeremiah with slow, deliberate menace.

“Now, now, Bruce. You come any closer, and I blow up Wayne Manor with all of us inside of it. I have a dozen more of these, uh—” Jeremiah winked conspiratorially at him “—Italian meringues sprinkled all throughout the house.”

Bruce stopped, hands fisted at his sides. “What did you do to Alfred? And who are these people?”

“Ah, glad you asked.” Jeremiah took another leisurely swig of wine. “ _Mmm_ , come. Come, come.” He strolled behind the sofa just as the man helped the woman to her feet. “Mommy and Daddy dearest were just an innocent couple I kidnapped based on…bone structure and, um, build. Just a touch of plastic surgery, and _voilà_. Waynes.” He chuckled, proudly patting his Martha-puppet’s shoulder. “Alfred, I nabbed in the Green Zone.”

These clueless souls’ compliance, Alfred’s included, smacked of Jervis Tetch’s work at its finest.

“They’re hypnotized,” Bruce said, less a question than dreadful, instinctively-fascinated certainty.

“Well, I’m afraid there was no room for improv in our script. Today is a _very_ important day, Bruce.” Jeremiah set a hand on each parent’s shoulder. “Just look at the way they’re dressed.”

 _Improv_ , Bruce thought, catching the gist. The charade was paramount, but only as long as it went according to Jeremiah’s plan. He let his face fall, willing the tension to drain from his stance.

“It’s the night my parents were killed,” he said quietly, hoping Jeremiah would accept his surrender.

Jeremiah smiled, oddly beatific. “And I’m giving you the chance to experience it all over again.”

Bruce took a boneless step forward, finding that it wasn’t difficult to force a hint of tears. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jeremiah asked. “Bruce, this—this was the most important day of your life. And I didn’t get to be a part of it. We need to rectify that.” He glanced beyond Bruce and clapped sharply. “Alfred, it’s time for dinner. Chop-chop. We’re on a very tight schedule.”

Alfred stepped from behind Bruce to lead the way out. “Of course, Mr. Jeremiah,” he replied.

With a deceptively harmless smile, Jeremiah offered Bruce his arm as Thomas and Martha—what else could Bruce call them, lacking their actual names—trailed after Alfred.

“Come along now, boys,” Martha called over her shoulder, her tone closer to convincing than ever.

 _I need to catch him off-guard_ , Bruce thought. _Convince him he set the wrong scene, that he’ll need to go back to the drawing board and do it over. But first, a false sense of security._

Bruce slid his arm through Jeremiah’s without flinching, taking careful note when Jeremiah tensed.

“How thoughtful,” he said, feigning resignation, swiping the wine decanter off the trolley as they passed it. “You’ve spared no detail. Mind if I bring this along? Lead the way.”

Jeremiah lit up with such guileless hope that Bruce remembered him as he’d once been: soft-spoken and fierce-eyed, sparing with his trust. He folded Bruce’s hand ceremoniously into the crook of his elbow, the brush of his gloved fingers a faded comfort.

“Not at all, Bruce,” he said affably, unconcerned that they’d fallen so far behind. “Alcohol ever was the oil of conversation. Such charming folks you’ve got. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels to _properly_ get to meet them.”

By the time they reached the kitchen, Martha was already seated while Thomas and Alfred bustled about with last-minute preparations. The kitchen smelled wonderful, a betrayal.

Jeremiah released Bruce’s arm and set his hand fondly at the small of Bruce’s back, pulling the chair caddy-corner to Martha’s out for him with the other. Bruce sat down, pondering his next move.

“Such a polite, handsome young man you’ve found,” Martha said to Bruce. “I’m so proud of you.”

Thomas turned from the counter to face them, nodding. “You picked a winner. Way to go, champ.”

Jeremiah patted Bruce’s shoulders once he’d helped Bruce push in his chair. His breathing sped up.

“Oh, no, you misunderstand. I’m awfully flattered, why—” Jeremiah took his place next to Bruce, withdrawing the bombs’ detonator from his jacket. “Bruce and I _have_ grown awfully close. We’ll see,” he said, approving as Alfred lit the tapers on the table. “Alfred told me such great tidbits about your childhood. How you used to eat here, in the kitchen, when it was just you and the family. My, how…homey and intimate.”

 _Surely I’m not misreading him_ , Bruce thought, the bitterness of what he’d once fleetingly imagined, and even _pursued_ , catching in his throat. _If this is as much belated flirtation as forced reminiscence, maybe…_

Alfred set plates in front of them. “Grilled cheese and Branston Pickle sandwich, Mr. Jeremiah. Master Bruce’s favorite. My influence, although Thomas did add a dash of aioli for extra flair.”

Thomas was still busy at the counter on the far side of the table, removing something from a bag.

Jeremiah laughed in sinister delight, the sound fading swiftly to chagrin. “ _Oh_. Come on, Bruce. That’s a weird favorite food for a twelve-year-old.”

“I’m playing your game,” said Bruce, as much to convince himself as convince Jeremiah. “Now, let Alfred and these people go. They’re innocent.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Jeremiah replied with something akin to somber regret. “It’s just—it’s very important to me that I get every detail exactly right. Speaking of which, the final touch.”

Thomas turned, setting a jewelry box on the table. He opened it, removed a delicate triple strand of cream-colored pearls, and clasped them dutifully around Martha’s neck.

Ashamed of his unbidden weakness, Bruce closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch, except what waited behind his eyelids was no better. He was in the alley again, helpless.

“What was it like, losing your parents that night?” Jeremiah asked, the uncanny, Jerome-like quality of his reverential pitch causing Bruce’s memory to shift. “I lost my family, too, Bruce. The wound still hasn’t healed, and I…think about it often.”

When the gunshot went off, instead of his father falling, what Bruce saw was his own splintered, garish reflection. Jerome’s reflection loomed behind his in the shattered mirror, its grin ghastly.

With a startled intake of breath, his direction suddenly made clear, Bruce opened his eyes. He tilted his chin and met Jeremiah’s yearning gaze. He offered Jeremiah a hesitantly sincere nod, and then turned to face the ghosts of his parents one last time.

“Hey, Mom? Dad?” Bruce asked, reaching over to set a hand on Jeremiah’s wrist. There it was again, the abrupt, panicked rise in Jeremiah’s breath. “I think Jeremiah and I would rather stay in tonight, so…why don’t you two go see the movie alone?” He glanced back at Jeremiah, unprepared for how arrestingly the last rays of sunset caught in Jeremiah’s pale, suspicious eyes. “Alfred, why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”

Jeremiah inclined his head, almost flirtatious again, covering Bruce’s hand fleetingly with the one that still held the detonator. If he regretted the decision he was about to make, he showed no sign.

“Why the hell not?” Jeremiah took back the hand that Bruce had been holding and removed a flip-phone from his pocket. He opened it and hit speed-dial; someone answered on the second ring. “Ecco. Hmmm? Yeah, _no_. Change of plans. I no longer need you to go to the plant, and I no longer need you to pick up our…other guests, either. Yes, _really_. Now, get out of the car, and come to the kitchen at once. I’ll need you to secure Mr. Pennyworth somewhere on the grounds, and then escort Mr. and Mrs. Wane to the theater. Our alternate scenario, you heard me right. The unthinkable has occurred.” He glanced giddily at Bruce, put the phone back in his pocket, and then picked up half of his sandwich. “We might as well eat while she’s on the way. _Mmm_ , that’s not too bad. Thomas, Martha? You two have a marvelous evening.”

Bruce began to eat, too, but in complete and docile silence while Thomas helped Martha to her feet.

Martha bent and kissed Bruce’s forehead. “We’ll catch up later, sweetheart. You boys have fun.”

Ecco rushed into the kitchen with comical timing, out of breath and gun in hand. She looked less than impressed with the proceedings, but didn’t comment. She twitched the firearm at Martha, Thomas, and Alfred in turn, hustling them toward the door.

“C’mon, lady and gents. Right this way,” she said, tapping the back of Alfred’s head with the gun-barrel as he followed the hapless couple out. “No funny business, Jeeves, ya hear?”

Once they were alone, Bruce reached for the Sauternes and filled their wine glasses. If Jeremiah’s increased tendency to ramble was anything to go on, his prior glasses were finally taking effect.

Jeremiah chewed, working on the remaining half of his sandwich. “Who’s thoughtful now?”

“Deactivate the explosives,” Bruce said calmly. “You have Alfred as collateral, isn’t that enough? I’ve been a terrible friend to you lately, and I regret it. Have a drink with me.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes and immediately clicked a button on the detonator. As he set it down next to his fork, the display on the bomb at the end of the table lit up with smiley-faces and then went dark.

“Fine, you’ve won me over,” he said, dropping a fragment of crust on his plate. “I’ll deviate from the script if it means we get to spend some quality time. Like we used to, remember?”

Bruce finished off most of his glass, hoping Jeremiah would feel progressively more at ease

“I do. Speaking of Alfred, I need to get this off my chest. What you did, abducting him? It was very inconsiderate. That’s not usually the kind of guest I invite into my home.”

Not to be outdone, Jeremiah swallowed half his own glass. He set it down and spread his hands.

“But I’m not just any guest, am I?” he asked, angling his body even more noticeably toward Bruce.

“No, of course not,” Bruce replied, genuinely faltering. “You’re—you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had, which is why it’s so important that I be honest with you. There’s a detail you got wrong.”

“Oh?” Jeremiah dabbed his mouth with a napkin, concerned now that he was intoxicated. “Then you must tell me, Bruce. I need to make it right.”

Bruce stared into his glass with rueful hesitation, and then gulped down the remainder for courage.

“The night my parents died _was_ incredibly important, but that feels so long ago,” he said with fierce conviction. “I’ve grown since then. I’ve made peace with it. The most formative experience I’ve had in recent memory was—well, it was actually the night Jerome abducted me. You know—the fun fair, the mirrors. Everything I told you about while we were working on your project for Wayne Enterprises. That night was transformative. It did something to define me. I’m telling you this because Jerome was your brother, and you suffer from his loss. I thought it might mean something to you—to know that your brother impacted my life just as much as you have.”

Wordlessly, Jeremiah finished his wine, set down his glass, and slammed the table with both fists.

“If we’re being honest, then there’s something I need to tell you, too,” he said, his anger subsiding as quickly as it had flared. “See, Bruce, it’s like this. When I said I lost my family, I wasn’t talking about my mother, who I did care for, or my—or that pathetic, psychopathic excuse for a circus clown. I was talking about _you_.”

Bruce felt keen sorrow, but he managed to channel it into some semblance of what he hoped was touched wonder. What he said next mattered.

“Jeremiah, I…” Bruce didn’t have to pretend to need another moment. “I can’t tell you how much it means to hear that. And it—it would mean the world to me if you’d release Alfred. I’d rather not return to the city alone, not when I fear for my safety, which…” He met Jeremiah’s inscrutable stare. “You’d like to see me again after tonight, wouldn’t you?”

Jeremiah looked wistfully from Bruce’s plate to his own, considering the crusts they’d both left. He tipped their empty glasses one by one, squared his shoulders, and folded his hands in his lap.

“How about this,” he said with tipsy deliberation, and even a hint of nerves. “Since we’ve had such a nice evening, our own private soirée while your parents are enjoying their date-night…” He glanced sidelong at Bruce. “I’ll let the butler go if you give me a good-night kiss.”

Without a second thought, Bruce leaned forward. He set his hand against Jeremiah’s cheek, unsurprised to feel a gritty dusting of whatever he’d used to lend contrast to his pallid skin. He saw Jeremiah’s eyes slip shut, felt the hitch in his breath as Jeremiah’s lips parted slightly beneath his.

In all of three seconds before Jeremiah turned his face away, Bruce tasted aioli and cloying wine.

Jeremiah stared vacantly at the disarmed explosive for a long, speechless moment before folding one gloved hand against his mouth. He stifled a hiccupping chuckle, and then looked at Bruce.

“I didn’t think that would actually _work_ ,” Jeremiah said coyly, plucking his phone back out of his jacket. His expression turned to one of sulky concentration as he hit speed-dial.

Bruce set his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands as Jeremiah ordered Ecco to have Alfred unbound and waiting at the fireplace. Had he truly played his hand just right?

“Should—does that mean I can go?” he asked, rising from his seat as the phone conversation ended.

Jeremiah was on his feet in a flash, the razor-fine point of his knife briefly skimming Bruce’s cheek.

“Until next time, Bruce. I expect you’ll want to hear all about your parents’ night at the movies.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even having gotten Alfred out of a harrowing situation alive, Bruce spent a restless night replaying how the evening had ended. Jeremiah had permitted him to leave the kitchen alone, remaining behind for no reason Bruce cared to consider.

Those strangers, unknowing imitations. _You’ll want to hear all about your parents’ night_ …

Bruce sat up in bed, glancing at his digital alarm clock. Ten till six in the morning, and he’d only just realized that he hadn’t considered what would happen to that couple after the film.

Once he’d dressed, Bruce passed silently down the hall past Alfred’s room. Sound tended to carry in the penthouse, incriminating on nights when Bruce decided to steal away. He resented having a place to stay, a home away from home when so many in Gotham were now homeless.

He ought to have stopped by the precinct on his way to the theater, perhaps to convince Jim and Harvey to come with him, but Bruce felt strangely possessive of this errand. It was private.

No surprise that the theater doors were open, blown off their hinges. However, as Bruce passed through the dusty, shadowed lobby and into the house, he wasn’t prepared for what awaited.

The lights were still down, and the screen flickered with a brief, black-and-white _Zorro_ parody that played on loop. The sound reel had either failed or only been set to run once, but it didn’t take long for Bruce to recognize Jeremiah and the men that Harper had found dead.

As Bruce walked down the aisle, it became numbingly clear that the couple seated several rows back from the front, leaning into each other with heads tilted, weren’t moving. The entrance wounds in the backs of their skulls were neat and identical. Given they’d been surgically altered beyond recognition and placed under hypnosis, the execution seemed almost merciful.

With lowered eyes, Bruce reached to remove the triple string of pearls from around the dead woman’s neck. His fingers trembled on the clasp, rage suffusing him like a sudden fever.

The necklace wasn’t original. Not unless Jeremiah had pilfered it from GCPD evidence storage and had it repaired, which was doubtful. The precinct’s lockdown had been faultless for months.

Bruce snapped one of the strands as he stalked out of the theater, spilling pearls into his hand. He’d leave a trail for Jeremiah to follow, and he’d wait at the tunnel until his arrival.

The Stockton subway stop was as empty as when Bruce had followed Jeremiah’s poor shades down it the day before, echoing with each footstep and pearl-drop he made. He had only a single bead left by the time he reached the tunnel’s entrance—fitting, given the pearl he’d found before.

As it turned out, Bruce’s dramatic, fairytale-worthy breadcrumb measure had been unnecessary.

Jeremiah stood on a rickety stool several feet into the tunnel, replacing a light that had gone out.

“Knew you’d turn up sooner or later,” he chuckled, twisting the bulb until it glowed. “Good morning, sunshine. Sentimental of you to choose the spot on which you caught your…erstwhile paramour attempting to take my life? I owe you thanks for such a gallant, accidental rescue.”

Bruce threw the pearl at him, experiencing a flush of intense embarrassment when it bounced off Jeremiah’s shoulder. He was wearing a blue jacket that shimmered in the artificial glow.

“You’ve done terrible things, Jeremiah,” he said, struggling to restrain himself without benefit of Alfred’s grasp, “but that doesn’t mean you deserve to die. No one does.”

Raising his eyebrows inquisitively, Jeremiah dusted off his gloved hands and hopped off the stool.

“Not even my joke of a brother?” he asked with distaste. “If you ask me, he got what was coming.”

Right hand fisted at his side, ready to strike, Bruce advanced on him. “Did the couple you killed?”

“You might say I spared them Gotham’s deplorable standard of living,” replied Jeremiah, and fled.

Running full-tilt down the tunnel was perilous, but Jeremiah had clearly practiced the maneuver sufficient to maintain an infuriating lead. Bruce was gasping for breath by the time he stumbled through the fireplace, lungs burning. He cast about the library, and then froze.

Jeremiah was leaning against the wall behind the right-hand sofa, tutting as he checked his watch.

“Now, Bruce,” he sighed, letting his sleeve fall back into place, “we’ll need to work on your—”

“Shut up!” Bruce snarled, vaulting over the sofa, ungracefully knocking into him. “Those people didn’t deserve to die!” He pinned Jeremiah’s hands at his sides. “I want you to say it.”

“Caveat,” Jeremiah said, not even struggling in Bruce’s grasp. “Ecco tailed you to the theater earlier, _but_ —she wasn’t the only one. It seems dear Alfred followed you, too. He got careless.”

Fueled by fresh, shocked panic, Bruce released Jeremiah’s left wrist and struck him across the jaw.

“Where has she taken him?” he hissed under his breath, repeating the blow when Jeremiah laughed.

“I’ll say I’m sorry for what I’ve done, maybe let him go,” Jeremiah taunted, “if you kiss me again.”

With determined fury, Bruce pinned Jeremiah to the wall. That unequivocally got his full attention.

Insultingly easy, even easier than the first time, to cover Jeremiah’s bruise-shaded mouth with his own. Bruce slid his tongue roughly across Jeremiah’s scarcely-parted lips, met with the waxy, chemical taste of whatever had been used to stain them.

Jeremiah moaned, the low, startled sound vibrating between their chests. He forced his tongue past Bruce’s teeth in kind, gasping like he’d been punched when Bruce bit his lip.

Bruce released Jeremiah’s wrists and stepped back, flushing hot with dismay as Jeremiah chased the contact. It hadn’t been like this last night.

Jeremiah staggered into him, red-gloved hands fisting in the lapels of Bruce’s coat, eyes luminously wide. He looked both enthralled and lost.

“Will that buy a few weeks’ peace?” Bruce asked, dry-mouthed as he grabbed Jeremiah’s elbows and attempted to dislodge him. “Jeremiah?”

“If that’s the going rate on good behavior,” Jeremiah rasped with a hint of wry desperation, fingers twining fiercely in Bruce’s coat, “lay another on me and it’ll buy you a month.”

Unable to erase the sounds Jeremiah had made from his mind, Bruce surged forward again. Beneath the acrid cosmetic, he tasted Jeremiah’s skin.

Jeremiah froze, keeping his mouth shut tight. He swallowed an unreadable noise and let go, his usual grace absent as he shied from Bruce’s hold.

“You drive a hard bargain. I’d expect nothing less,” he muttered, diffidently turning aside. “Now, get out of here, Bruce, before I change my mind.”

“Not without Alfred,” Bruce said, fighting to keep his voice level. “I’ve only ever known you to be a man of your word. Apologize and release him.”

Jeremiah stuck his hands in his pockets, straightening his posture. He made the face that Bruce had come to understand as _you have a point_. He withdrew his phone, flipped it open, and hit a single button several times before glancing up, poised in spite of his smudged lipstick.

“There’s been an accident,” Jeremiah said gravely. “Mr. Pennyworth pulled some funny business, so Ecco had to put a bullet in him. I truly am sorry. Till now, he’d been a perfect gentleman.”

Bruce slammed him back into the wall without so much as a breath of warning, ashamed at how fiercely he’d wanted to maintain absolute control in the first place. He struck Jeremiah harder this time, tangled the fingers of his free hand in Jeremiah’s hair, and _yanked_.

No mistaking it now, not as Jeremiah jerked against him. His whimper went straight to Bruce’s gut.

“Is Alfred alive?” Bruce demanded, his tone gone harsh and merciless. “Jeremiah, _is_ he—”

Jeremiah looked dazed, as if he had no memory of what he’d read on his phone. His breath came in shallow, labored gasps, and there was no ignoring that he’d gone hard against Bruce’s hip.

Bruce wanted to hit him again, but it seemed there was something far more subtle—and so much less damaging—that he could use. He pulled Jeremiah’s hair hard enough to feel a sympathetic sting.

Jeremiah jolted and clung to Bruce. The sound he made this time was just shy of a hysterical sob.

“Yes!” he gasped raggedly, attempting to escape. “Yes, Bruce, your precious butler’s _alive_.”

Dazed in equal measure, Bruce released him and stepped back. Beneath the rush of terrified arousal, the desire to keep _pushing_ , he realized he needed to get Alfred back to the hospital as swiftly as he could.

Staring wide-eyed, Jeremiah brought his phone shakily up to his ear. He ordered Ecco to stay where she was outside the tunnel with Alfred, sounding disturbingly like his pre-transformation self.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, swallowing thickly. “I appreciate that you respect me enough not to—”

“Get out,” Jeremiah snarled, his balisong already in hand, “before I decide to take his life after all!”

Bruce turned and ran for the fireplace. Sick with rising terror and stunned guilt, he didn’t look back.

He found an unconscious Alfred slumped against the wall alongside the tunnel’s entrance. Ecco was nowhere to be found. Examination showed that the shot Alfred had taken to the stomach had likely lodged the bullet in his spine.

Cold with speechless dread, Bruce fumbled his phone from his coat pocket and speed-dialed Jim.

Harvey came along for the ride, which was fortunate given that it took all three of them to lift Alfred into the van in hopes of avoiding further damage. Their hands were streaked with blood.

Alfred moaned and attempted to stir when Jim slammed the door and raced around to the driver’s side. Harvey was already in the passenger seat, swearing at Jim to hurry the hell up.

Bruce sat next to Alfred in the filthy, upholstered bed of the van where back seats had once been. He set a hand on Alfred’s chest, willing each successive beat of his heart.

“Who did this?” Jim asked, jamming his key into the ignition, screeching into the empty street.

“Jeremiah lured me down the tunnel again,” Bruce said. “I came to confront him about some civilians he murdered. Ecco followed me, and so did Alfred. She got him.”

“Kid, you need to stop baiting the loonies,” Harvey sighed tiredly, “or at least stop looking for ’em.”

Bruce caught Jim’s eyes in the rearview mirror, resenting what he saw in them. He looked away.

“Jeremiah will answer for his actions, and nobody can convince me otherwise. I’ll make him pay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thanks to Lee’s expert intervention, Alfred survived. She’d been able to remove the bullet, but the inflammation surrounding Alfred’s spinal column had prevented him from waking up from surgery. Nobody wanted to use the word _coma_ , but it hung in the antiseptic-laced air.

Bruce spent three intolerable weeks assisting Jim and Harvey with their patrols and humanitarian efforts during daylight. At night, he stalked Gotham’s streets in search of a menace he knew he wouldn’t find. The darkness mocked him, its indistinct revelations refusing to take shape.

A month of peace, the accord stated, sealed with a calamitous kiss. Jeremiah was a man of his word.

At the close of the third week, a bouquet of twelve lapel-sized dry rosebuds in varying colors arrived at the precinct. They were bound in red thread strung with mud-streaked pearls.

No note accompanied the delivery, but Bruce knew both the dead blooms and their binding on-sight.

Jim had reluctantly surrendered the artifact to him, entirely unconvinced at Bruce’s insistence that it was a prank to rattle the ranks. That it was meaningless, a jest with no answer.

Late that night, alone in the penthouse, Bruce cut the red thread and unbundled the roses’ short, brittle stems. There was something stiff inside, black-patterned, folded and rolled in on itself.

Bruce flattened the Jack of Spades and stared at the lipstick-stain marring its implacable face.

The start of the fourth week brought Selina to Bruce’s bedroom window unannounced. She’d slipped inside while he slept and set up shop at his desk, scratching something into its surface.

“Would you stop that,” Bruce yawned, sitting up, squinting at her in the scant grey light of dawn.

Selina stilled her busy fingers, rolling her eyes. “This place is so boring. You need to spice it up.”

“No offense, but your idea of interior decorating involves unwashed dishes and a ton of stray cats.”

“What’s with you lately? If you’re not working yourself to the bone on patrol, you’re holed up in here like a wounded animal. Lee tells me you haven’t visited Alfred since the day—”

“Alfred’s in a coma,” Bruce said curtly, getting out of bed. “He wouldn’t know even if I was there.”

Selina, still perched on his desk chair, watched him with weary, troubled eyes as he got dressed.

“Guess it’s true,” she murmured, “what Jim and Harv are saying. You’re a man on a mission, huh.”

“I won’t rest until Jeremiah has answered for what happened,” Bruce insisted, adjusting his collar.

“Here’s the thing, though,” Selina said, dropping into a seated position before standing. “Ecco’s the one who shot Alfred, right? And exactly what d’you think would’ve been the best thing for that poor couple Jeremiah made look like your parents, anyway? Their minds were gone.”

“I don’t follow,” Bruce said, running his fingers agitatedly through his hair, but it was a lost cause.

“This is a dumb fucking grudge, is what I mean,” Selina replied. “There are people that need help.”

“And I’m helping them,” said Bruce, donning his coat, “by making sure Jeremiah stays in check. Anything above and beyond that, the answering for what he did? That’s personal.”

Selina came up behind him at the mirror, her reflection frowning fiercely. “He stays in check?”

“For the most part, yes,” Bruce replied, turning to face her. “When was the last time he caused trouble on a grand scale?”

Selina shrugged. “Not for a while, I guess? Can’t remember. You’re saying it’s thanks to you?”

Bruce nodded. “Jeremiah and I came to an agreement last time I saw him. Almost a month ago.”

“Wow, Bruce. I’m having a hard time understanding,” Selina scoffed. “You have personal revenge business with Jeremiah, but you _also_ have some kinda…truce? Which is it?”

“Both,” Bruce said, beginning to realize that the look in her eyes was the same as the one in Jim’s.

“Sounds like one super complicated relationship,” said Selina, and then whistled. “Oh, wait. Were those creepy dried roses from loverboy?” She slipped her hand in her back pocket and withdrew the badly-creased playing card, waving it at him. “Bruce, what are you _doing_?”

Bruce snatched the card away from her before she could pocket it again, stuffing it inside his coat.

“Keeping this city safe the only way I know how,” he said reproachfully. “The only way I can.”

“One savior complex is enough for this hellhole,” Selina shot back. “Jim Gordon’s got it covered.”

Resisting the impulse to push past her without another word, Bruce hardened his expression further.

“If you knew you could keep people from getting hurt by making deals with the devil, would you?”

Selina laughed venomously. “Even though Jeremiah shoulda stayed dead, he’s not immortal. Someone’ll off him eventually. This city’s tearing itself to pieces, which is why…”

Bruce narrowed his eyes as she trailed off, realizing she’d said something she hadn’t intended to.

“Which is why…?” he prompted, pushing past her toward the door. “I can’t stand here all day.”

“Which is why I’m getting outta dodge,” Selina said softly. “Penguin and Nygma found a way.”

“God,” Bruce said, opening the bedroom door. “Whatever Ed’s scheme is, it’ll get you all killed.”

Selina marched up to him and spun him around, her clawed hands in a vise-grip on his shoulders.

“You don’t want to leave, do you? You wouldn’t leave with me no matter how nicely I asked.”

“I can’t leave,” Bruce said, removing her hands. “As long as Gotham needs me, as long as Alfred—”

Cutting him off with a chaste, wistful kiss, Selina patted Bruce’s cheeks. Her eyes shone with tears.

“You keep telling yourself that,” she said, “but it's not about either one. G’bye, Bruce. Good luck.”

Bruce watched her leave the way she’d come, marveling briefly at her soundless drop into the wind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At dusk, four weeks to the day, Bruce was pondering a map in the precinct when Lee found him.

“Hey,” she said, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Jim says you hardly ever go home. Have you eaten? Slept? Done any of the things a normal human being needs to survive?”

 _I’m not normal_ , Bruce thought, shrugging dully. _Not when I want the things I want._

“I know how badly you want to find that—that freak,” Lee said, shaking him gently, “but you should really come with me right now. It’s important.”

Bruce abruptly got to his feet, startling her enough that she took a few steps back. “Is it Alfred?”

“He’s finally awake,” Lee said, smiling through her exhaustion, “and he’s been asking for you.”

“You could have called,” Bruce said, indicating the land-line. “Sorry my phone’s been off.”

“Believe me, I only call down here when I have to,” said Lee, with wry disgust. “Come on.”

Alfred was sitting up when they arrived at the hospital, but only by virtue of his inclined bed.

“Look at you,” he said, weakly patting Bruce’s fingers as Bruce set his hands on the mattress.

“I’ve been eating and sleeping,” Bruce said, catching Lee’s sour expression from across the room.

“I know a lie when I see one,” Alfred wheezed, tensing as if in pain. “How’s Selina keeping?”

“Last time I saw her, about a week ago, she told me she was leaving,” Bruce said. “She’s gone.”

Alfred’s pained grimace intensified, this time in grief. “Why, Master Bruce? What have you done?”

“I refused to go with her,” Bruce said. “How could I leave when you’re still here, when this city needs me? I’ve been hunting Jeremiah day and night. Just because he agreed to a month’s armistice doesn’t mean I don’t want to make him suffer for what he did—”

“A month?” Alfred asked incredulously. “That’s how long I’ve been asleep, isn’t it. The gig’s up. He’ll make his whereabouts known soon enough.”

Bruce nodded, staring down at his hands as he withdrew them. “I’m going on patrol tonight. I’ll be ready.”

“You’re playing with fire,” Alfred whispered, head tipping back as he closed his eyes. “No, worse than fire. Do you realize this is madness?”

“You don’t know anything about it, Alfred,” Bruce said. “It’s necessary. As long as I meet him halfway once in a while, fewer people die. He’s kept his word so far.”

“Dr. Thompkins says I’ll be laid up at least another month. I’ll likely never walk again without use of a cane. I’m still alive, yeah, but at what cost? Where does making him suffer figure in?”

“I don’t want to hear it! You’re not the one patrolling the streets, risking your life to keep a madman in check. And yes, look what happened last time you followed me. I’m in control!”

Alfred opened his eyes, blinking at Bruce through his freshly-welled tears. “Are you, Master Bruce?”

“I have to go,” Bruce said wretchedly, storming out of the room before Lee could attempt to stop him.

He didn’t stop until he was outside, until his coat was buffeted by the freezing night air. His feet retraced a path that he’d revisited sleeplessly, without cease, through the newspaper-strewn alley and down the Stockton subway-stop stairs.

The shadows beckoned him as he descended, the shapes of them starkly-defined.

Cruel, cruel certainty closed in on Bruce as he rounded the next corner, killing his flashlight in anticipation of the of the tunnel’s soft glow. Met with pitch-blackness, he turned it back on.

If he was correct in his newfound assumption that Jeremiah simply hadn’t left Wayne Manor in all this time, then why were the lights out? He stormed down the tunnel, finding his flashlight-beam inadequate. He nearly tripped several times, catching himself against the muddy walls.

On emerging through the fireplace, Bruce found that the library, too, was dark. There was no sign of human habitation, and the disarmed bomb sat precisely where Jeremiah had left it. The room was faultlessly tidy.

Prowling floor to floor, starting with the cellar, he found twelve of Jeremiah’s so-called Italian meringues, but no trace of current occupation.

At long last, Bruce wearily mounted the stairs, sweeping scant illumination ahead of him. He switched off his flashlight when he realized a light was on at the far end of the hall, which was where…

Bruce’s bedroom door was ajar, but no light emanated from within. He paused in the doorway and gave it a shove, watching as it swung fully inward. Bruce’s shadow fell long and foreboding across the bed.

Surveying the space, finding his eyes had adjusted fully to the darkness, Bruce realized that the belongings strewn here and there—articles of clothing, books, toiletries on the desk—weren’t his.

The lump under the duvet stirred, but it didn’t roll to face him. Only its sleek, greenish hair was visible.

“I’m only going to ask once,” Bruce said, frigid with command. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Wondering if you’d come back to renew the contract, so to speak,” said Jeremiah, blurry with sleep. “See how well that worked?  Not a rocket set off, not a soul hypnotized, not a drop of blood spilt.”

“That’s not an answer!” Bruce snapped, dropping the flashlight. “Now, for the last time, _what_ —”

Stretching lazily, Jeremiah rolled onto his back. His lithe arms glowed almost white, distractingly bare save for loose, dark sleeves bunched at his shoulders as he let them fall above his head.

“Did you like the roses?” he yawned. “Ecco keeps getting them for my lapel, who knows where. I dried them for you so they’d keep longer. Thought your Hansel-and-Gretel pearls would be a nice touch.”

Too furious to form a response, Bruce fished in his pocket for the defaced Jack of Spades. He threw it.

Jeremiah finally rolled onto his side, blinking at the playing card where it had landed, and then at Bruce.

“Couldn’t risk you wondering about whether or not I was thinking of you during our time apart,” he said earnestly, his inhuman eyes glinting in the light that filtered in from behind Bruce. “Rest assured, I was. Having the likes of Ecco for company—she’s gotten scarcer and scarcer, mind, running around our wasteland of a city with who _knows_ what—will only get you so far. Can you believe she’s accused me of relegating her to maid service? Granted, this place wasn’t going to clean itself. I’ve grown accustomed to mockingly being called Mr. J.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Bruce snarled, closing the space between them before Jeremiah could talk back.

He dug the fingers of his right hand into Jeremiah’s disconcertingly perfect hair, dragging him from the bed with a _thud_. It was strange to see his navy terrycloth bathrobe on someone else.

Jeremiah had begun to cackle. There was a thin, strained quality to the sound even as he refused to struggle against Bruce’s grasp when Bruce forced him onto his knees.

“You don’t get to do this,” Bruce hissed, mercilessly pulling Jeremiah’s hair. “You don’t get to live here, don’t get to sleep in _my_ room, without facing the consequences.”

Jeremiah grunted in pain and shuffled forward, following as best he could while Bruce dragged him into the hall. It was a struggle for both of them, as awkward as it was. They were panting and shaking by the time Bruce had hauled him a few feet.

The master-bedroom door was to their left. Consumed with rage, scarcely thinking, Bruce pushed it open.

“I know what you want,” he said, yanking at Jeremiah’s hair until Jeremiah groaned and staggered to his feet, clutching at his head. “You’re afraid of it, and so was I—but your thing is conquering fear, right?”

Jeremiah swayed on his feet, pulling the disarrayed robe back in order. He glowered at Bruce, nodding, otherworldly in backlit silhouette. Mortal or monstrous, his beauty was heart-stopping.

“I’ve conquered mine,” Bruce said, shedding his coat on the floor, “and now it’s time you conquered yours.”

“You’ve come to punish me, is that it?” Jeremiah spat in disappointment. “Make me suffer for my sins?”

“No,” Bruce said, shrugging out of his sweater, noting that Jeremiah’s eyes had gone wide. “Jeremiah?”

“Speaking,” Jeremiah deadpanned, his hands twitching at his sides. His ruffled uncertainty betrayed him.

“Why aren’t you fighting me?” Bruce asked, unbuttoning his shirt, businesslike. “Where’s your knife?”

Jeremiah cocked his head in an attitude of doubt, his silver-limned eyes as round as they’d ever been.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said tentatively, licking his lips, “ _but_ —you don’t usually undress for that.”

Bruce finished unbuttoning his shirt, letting it hang. He took in every detail of Jeremiah’s posture, from the discomfited hunch of his shoulders to his twitching, grasping fingers. He was _waiting_.

“Don’t just stand there,” Bruce ordered, gesturing curtly at his parents’ four-poster. “Get on the bed.”

Jeremiah swayed where he stood, conflicted, but didn’t budge. His right hand jerked, dipping into the bathrobe’s pocket. He’d flicked the knife open and raised it before Bruce could react.

“This is a far, far cry from the gentleman I’d led myself to believe I was courting,” he said dourly.

 _The nerve_ , Bruce thought, overwhelmed by rage as he strode right up to the edge of the blade.

“I have to say, though,” said Jeremiah, with a hint of his usual flirtatiousness as he let Bruce press the searing steel into his own windpipe, “I’ll be awfully disappointed if you slit your own throat.”

“I said,” Bruce repeated, turning Jeremiah’s head aside with a swift, ruthless slap as he knocked the knife out of Jeremiah’s hand, “ _get on the bed_.”

Jeremiah shook himself, rubbing at his cheek as he broke into a coy smile. “Anything for you, Bruce.”

Acquiescence be damned, Bruce grabbed the bathrobe’s loosely-tied belt. He used it to drag Jeremiah over to stand alongside the bed, and then yanked down the covers with his free hand.

“All this trouble for what I thought you’d demand of me a month ago,” Jeremiah sighed. “Imagine.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Bruce raged, grabbing him by the shoulders. He wheeled them around so that Jeremiah’s back was to the bed, unceremoniously shoving him down on the mattress. “Untie it.”

Blinking in surprise, Jeremiah scrambled so that he no longer lay the wrong way across the bed. He let both of his hands creep to the tie at his waist, lit by the glow of the hall light through the door. The sparse hair on his chest glinted faint and coppery against his washed-out flesh.

“Didn’t even give a guy time to do his face,” he said reproachfully, loosening the oddly precise bow.

“Good. I haven’t seen you like this since the graveyard, when you wiped off all that paint,” Bruce said, letting his shirt fall to the floor as Jeremiah parted the robe just enough to expose— _oh_.

Bruce stared at the sequence of erratic red weals scattered across Jeremiah’s torso, realizing with sudden, sick clarity that there was a reason why Jeremiah couldn’t always breathe. His stab-wounds had healed, but only just enough. Jeremiah was still in some degree of discomfort.

“Don’t let it keep you from playing rough,” Jeremiah said, closing his eyes. “When you had me against the wall, you probably noticed I don’t mind.”

Bruce unlaced his boots and stumbled out of them, grateful that Jeremiah wanted him to finish undressing. He tugged off his socks, and then removed his trousers. He climbed onto the bed in nothing but his boxer-briefs, sliding his hand beneath the robe to stroke Jeremiah’s belly.

Jeremiah opened his eyes, gaze lucid and intense. He took hold of Bruce’s wrist and guided it down and over the sharp rise of his hip, catching his raw, pink lower lip between his teeth in concentration.

 _Just like you used to do when we were bent over the drafting table_ , Bruce thought. He massaged his thumb briefly into the hollow of Jeremiah’s hipbone, fascinated at the breathy gasp it drew. _I miss watching you for hours._

“If you try to sentimentalize this,” Jeremiah said tersely, his eyes screwed shut, “I’ll be disappointed.”

Bruce kissed him quiet, ready when Jeremiah winced and pushed up against him. He stiffened against Bruce’s belly, licking past Bruce’s teeth. His erection was warm, already the barest hint wet.

Tugging the terrycloth belt free of Jeremiah’s robe, Bruce broke the kiss and rocked back on his heels. He nudged the splay of Jeremiah’s legs wider so he could kneel between them, disbelieving. Was this really all that it would have taken, harsh commands and a firm enough touch?

“Hands above your head,” Bruce ordered, and Jeremiah’s eyes flew open again. “Jeremiah, _now_.”

Breathing fast, Jeremiah crossed his wrists and set them against the lowest rung of the headboard.

“You might want to get rid of this first,” he said, nosing at the robe-sleeve bunched at his shoulder.

Bruce slapped him harder this time, but instantly regretted it when Jeremiah moaned and caught Bruce’s hips in a vise-trip between his knees. He was trembling, already closer than Bruce would have liked.

“Don’t,” Bruce said sternly, lashing Jeremiah’s wrists to the headboard with the robe’s tie. “Not yet.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Jeremiah panted, struggling halfheartedly to test Bruce’s knots, “but I...”

The words died on Jeremiah’s tongue as Bruce rid himself of his underwear. He gave himself a few perfunctory strokes solely for Jeremiah’s benefit, watching as Jeremiah’s breath stuttered in his heaving chest.

“Bruce,” said Jeremiah, with none of the usual polish evident in his diction. “Please, I— _Bruce_.”

Bruce stretched against him, letting the full weight of his body settle. He made sure most of the robe was tugged aside, stroking lingeringly from Jeremiah’s thighs up to his sides as he buried his face in Jeremiah’s neck.

Jeremiah smelled just the way he used to during those long hours they’d spent working in his bunker. More than once, Bruce had imagined what it would be like to catch Jeremiah’s face in both hands across the drafting table, remove his glasses, and kiss him over his brilliant schematic.

“Are you in pain?” Bruce whispered, not daring to look up as he cautiously stroked Jeremiah’s cheek.

Jeremiah choked on a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Not the way you think.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Bruce soothed, letting himself forget, for the sake of sanity, what had led them here. He lifted his head and kissed Jeremiah deeply, bracing his elbows on either side of Jeremiah’s chest.

Almost as soon as Bruce started to move, Jeremiah groaned, bit down on Bruce’s lower lip, and came.

Bruce eased off kissing him only long enough to let Jeremiah catch his shuddering breath. His skin felt unbearably tight.

The realization that this was not only his first sexual encounter, but likely also Jeremiah’s, sent him shivering against Jeremiah’s chest. He wanted Jeremiah’s arms around him so fiercely it was an ache.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Jeremiah was whispering frantically against Bruce’s ear, “ _don’t stop_.”

Through a surge of arousal that only just eclipsed his regret, Bruce worked one arm beneath Jeremiah and pressed his palm flat between Jeremiah’s shoulder blades. Held him close and didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop even when he came so hard it wrenched the air from his chest.

Jeremiah came a second time while Bruce clung to him in an effort to recover, dry-climaxing from the feel of it. Bruce blindly kissed the soft, ashen skin of Jeremiah’s neck. He bit down hard enough to make Jeremiah shout as his thighs clenched tighter at Bruce’s hips.

At length, feeling guiltily, yet possessively sated, Bruce lifted his head with a dazed, drowsy blink.

“Why didn’t you _tell me_?” whispered Jeremiah, brokenly, his eyes glittering in accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me that you wanted—”

Hurt, Bruce struck him hard enough to leave a livid bruise, this time across his damp, flushed cheekbone.

“Because I loved you too much to ruin what we had!” he seethed, rolling away from Jeremiah and off the bed as his vision blurred. “And now...”

“I get it,” Jeremiah said while Bruce gathered his clothes and Jeremiah’s knife, hoarse, but with a hint of disdain.  “Now, it’s  _just_  want.”

“Something like that,” Bruce replied bitterly. He sliced through Jeremiah’s bonds, set the knife beside him, and left.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In subsequent weeks, the situation didn’t improve. It worsened in the most disastrous fashion imaginable.

Another month’s peace would have been far too much to ask. A week later, a week to the _day_ , a dozen bodies turned up on the front steps of the precinct. Chessmen and Leopards in equal measure, they showed the same ghastly damage by toxin inhalation that Jeremiah’s _Zorro_ victims had suffered. Each had a strand of faux pearls around their neck.

Jim marched up the steps to where Bruce was motionless and watching GCPD forensics collect evidence.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to set him off,” he said under his breath, “but you’d better fix this.”

“I’ll find him,” Bruce snapped, stalking off then and there. He’d needed an excuse, and now he had one.

Jeremiah was waiting for Bruce next to the _STOCKTON_ mosaic on the empty underground platform—dressed to dazzle, his make-up immaculate. His hands were in his pockets, knife absent.

“I hope you liked them as much as you liked the roses,” he said with grave sincerity. “That was quite a night we had, Bruce, don’t you think? It called for a much grander gesture.”

Bruce pinned him against the tile, intending to land as many punches as he could stand. But Jeremiah’s breath quickened in desperation, and Bruce was kissing him before he even knew what had happened.

Jeremiah drew Bruce’s forearm tight against his throat. Seconds later, he was gasping as Bruce rubbed him through his superbly-tailored trousers. Once they’d both finished, he stalked off without a word.

Two weeks later—once again, two weeks to the day—Harper and her patrol team found a sprawling Docklands warehouse that had been converted into a maze of mirrors. Harvey announced to everyone what she’d radioed.

Bruce abandoned marking new borders on Jim’s map and asked to go with them.

“Dunno what kind of approach you’ve been takin’,” Harvey said, pulling the van up in front of the warehouse, “but do us all a favor and knock it off. Or kill him and have done with it, you feel?”

“No,” Bruce said, getting out of the van with a sense of dreading anticipation. “I don’t kill people.”

Harvey whistled in disgust, staring straight ahead through the windshield. “I sure wish you did.”

“Ask Harper to clear the premises,” Bruce insisted, about to close the passenger-side door. “I’ll go in alone. Trust me. I’ve already been through something like this with a Valeska and survived.”

“Yeah,” Harvey muttered, raising the radio to his unkempt mustache, “but not _this_ Valeska.”

“Do it,” Bruce said, slamming the door. He watched Harvey bark orders into the radio.

He waited for Harper’s entire unit to file out of the building before going inside.

Jeremiah’s elegant maze was uncannily serene. Bruce wandered aimlessly for nearly an hour, finding nothing but upright, immovable panels of glass. It wasn’t until he noticed the occasional loose pearl that he caught the gist, collecting the beads as he went. They led him to a dead end.

The mirror shattered from behind without warning, massive shards narrowly missing Bruce as they fell.

Jeremiah was dressed like Jerome had been dressed that night at the fun fair, but his face was his own.

“Didn’t take you anywhere near as long as I thought,” Jeremiah said, dropping to his knees as Bruce joined him in the shadowed space behind the shattered mirror, “and a good thing, too.”

“No bodies?” Bruce gasped, closing his eyes as Jeremiah—waiting, always waiting—stroked him through his jeans. He buried both hands in Jeremiah’s ginger hair, surely dyed to temporarily restore its original color, pulling so hard that Jeremiah moaned. “Pearls instead of carnage?”

“You were good to me last time,” Jeremiah said, unbuttoning Bruce’s fly, encouraged by Bruce’s fingers in his hair. “Consider this my _actual_ attempt at recreating the most important night of your life.”

“You left a lot out,” Bruce said, startled when Jeremiah kissed and nuzzled him. “I know you value detail.”

“Not a risk I could take,” Jeremiah mumbled, tasting him with a sigh. “I want to be the star of the show.”

“Do it,” Bruce ordered, yanking his hair, and Jeremiah swallowed him whole. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , Jero—”

Jeremiah pulled off him, reproachfully wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He got to his feet and smoothed his hair, cool eyes flashing deadly in the dimness even though his posture radiated distress.

Bruce hurriedly put his clothing back together as Jeremiah produced the balisong out of nowhere.

“Heat of the moment and all that, I know,” Jeremiah crooned, caressing Bruce’s cheek with the flat of the blade. “Can’t blame your pretty, sentimental head for tripping up, _dollface_.”

Before Bruce could make either an apology or an excuse, Jeremiah slashed his cheek and swiped his thumb across the wound. He smeared the blood across Bruce’s lips, eyeing him critically.

“Just not the same, is it?” he said, licking the knife clean. He spun on his heel and vanished into the dark.

The next time Jeremiah acted out, he didn’t even wait a week. Three days after the unfortunate mirror-maze incident, Jim and Bruce followed a trail of toxin victims with their throats cut, twenty-four in total, from the precinct door to Ace Chemicals.

Jim took one look at the clouds of green smoke billowing from the stacks and patted Bruce on the back.

“This is all you,” he said, angrier than Bruce had ever seen him, and turned back the way they’d come.

Shivering in the settling dusk, Bruce approached the eerily-lit, open entrance to the chemical plant. He froze in his tracks when Jeremiah, dark-haired once more, appeared in the threshold’s haunting orange glow.

“Here, Bruce!” Jeremiah called, spitefully taunting. “What are you waiting for, Gordon to come back?”

Seized with indescribable fury, Bruce rushed at the entrance with every last ounce of adrenaline he had.

Jeremiah fled ahead of him, disappearing into the plant’s noxiously-beckoning darkroom of an interior.

Bruce spotted Jeremiah instantly. He leaned against the railing of a catwalk that overlooked a vat of God-knew-what, blade at the ready. Bruce touched his stinging cheek as he dashed up the staircase, cursing the naming coincidence—butterfly bandages, butterfly knife—to hell and back.

“Jeremiah!” he shouted, storming up the last steps as Jeremiah turned toward him. “This ends. Tonight.”

“No. No, Bruce,” Jeremiah said wistfully, advancing several steps, twirling the knife. “Now, it begins.”

“Wait,” Bruce said, jumping back as Jeremiah took a lunge at him. “Wait! Can’t we just try and—”

“All I wanted was to feel connected to you!” Jeremiah raged, expression bordering on heartbroken. “I gave you everything! My friendship, my trust— _myself_!” He lunged again.

Bruce parried a sequence of blows so swordsman-like in their precision that, fleetingly, he gained a new appreciation for the fencing maneuvers he’d seen Jeremiah execute in black-and-white.

He caught Jeremiah’s wrist on the next vicious lunge, knocking the balisong out of his hand and into the vat.

Jeremiah stared after it for several seconds, and then whirled to lash out at Bruce with a sequence of backpedaling kicks as Bruce advanced on him. He lost his grip on the railings and toppled backward, laughing breathlessly as Bruce fell on him with a betrayal-fueled punch.

“Don’t give me that!” Bruce shouted, landing several more blows in quick succession even as Jeremiah’s laughter reached a fever pitch. “I gave _you_ everything! D’you think this has been easy?”

“No, but _you’re_ easy,” Jeremiah retorted, grabbing the backs of Bruce’s thighs, tugging him flush.

“This isn’t a game,” Bruce hissed, winding his fingers in Jeremiah’s hair. Instead of pulling it, he bent low over Jeremiah until their foreheads touched. “What will it take for me to…”

“To keep me in check?” Jeremiah asked standoffishly. “Check _mate_? You see, Bruce, I think that’s just the problem. You say it’s not a game, _but_ —for you?” He pecked Bruce on the lips. “That’s exactly what it is. Kiss and tell—” he punctuated the phrase with a thrust of his hips “—fuck and run. What difference does it really make?”

“To Gotham?” Bruce asked, slapping him for the mere suggestion. “The difference between chaos and ruin.” He kissed Jeremiah on the mouth, biting Jeremiah’s lower lip until it bled. “To me?”

“I thought you felt it,” Jeremiah whispered with reproach, licking at the cut, and then into Bruce’s mouth.

 _I do_ , Bruce thought, kissing him back for all he was worth, _but how can I possibly admit it?_

Jeremiah broke the kiss, his eyes shut tight, stroking Bruce’s cheeks fervently with both gloved hands.

“An ultimatum, then,” he said with startling gravitas. “I won’t just be your plaything. This isn’t a game, I’ve put it all on the line, and I won’t just do whatever you want for _scraps_ anymore, Bruce. I’ve given you all of myself, and now? I need all of _you_.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Bruce asked helplessly, despising himself for having lost control.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah sighed almost tenderly, scrabbling above his head. He brought a shard of scrap-metal up against Bruce’s throat. “My lover, my heart. My fearless Jack of Spades. Figure it out.”

Bruce delivered a skull-cracking blow to the side of Jeremiah’s head before he could press the metal into Bruce’s throat any harder, rolling off him in sheer exhaustion. He heard the footfalls too late.

Ecco stood over them, her head tilted in bewildered disdain. She kicked the shard away from Jeremiah’s fingers, toeing at his head to make sure he was unconscious. She offered Bruce her hand.

“Thanks,” Bruce huffed as she helped him to his feet. “Listen, I…know you’re the one who shot Alfred.”

“If I hadn’t done it,” she said emphatically, “then he woulda killed me. You of all people know that.”

Bruce nodded, staring down at Jeremiah’s slack features. “I know. You were also acting under orders.”

“Hah!” Ecco said, miming a kick to the side of Jeremiah’s head. “I ain’t takin’ them from him no more.”

“He told me you hadn’t been around the Manor much,” Bruce replied. “Said you’d found new friends.”

“Oh, I found somebody all right!” Ecco said in delight, striding to the railing. “Hey, Ives!” she shouted, beckoning to someone Bruce couldn’t see. “Come up here and meet the piece of work Mr. J’s been bangin’! You didn’t believe me, huh? Said you _knew_ him or somethin’?”

About a minute later, Ivy Pepper strode up the stairs, wearing the least shocked look Bruce had ever seen.

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Ivy said, smirking at Bruce. “It’s that I didn’t think he’d get careless.”

“Ivy,” Bruce said, giving her a chagrined nod. “I never got to thank you for what you did for Selina.”

Ivy shrugged, setting her hands on Ecco’s shoulders. “Don’t mention it. For old times’ sake, ya know?”

“These ain’t old times no more, I can tell that much,” Ecco said, jerking her chin at Bruce. “You changin’ your stripes, Mr. Goody Two-Boots? If so, goody _goody_ , but…you could do better.”

Bruce stared down at Jeremiah until his chest ached. “Yeah,” he said pensively. “I could have.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Staying in his room for days on end was something Bruce hadn’t done since the months following his parents’ deaths. Still, from time to time, it held certain undeniable utility and appeal.

Lee called him three times in the second day alone, begging him to come and visit Alfred. Three times, he told her that he couldn’t—and that was the truth. The guilt was crushing, inescapable.

If he’d done better by Jeremiah when they’d first become friends, if he’d risked speaking his heart plainly _then_ —too late for that. Far too late to prevent any of what they’d done.

On the third and fourth days respectively, Harvey called from the precinct and asked if Bruce was okay. If he wanted to come on patrol, if he wanted in on some Narrows raid. He even promised to keep Jim away from him, what when Jim had decided he wasn’t speaking to Bruce.

Navel-gazing with a side of self-flagellation was Bruce’s specialty. He couldn’t take credit for the phrasing, even, because Alfred had coined it. This time, though, he was beating himself up over the wrong thing. Not over sleeping with the monster, but over not having loved him better.

Changing his stripes. Wasn’t that how Ecco had so insightfully put it? He’d concluded she was right.

Alfred was better off without him. Selina was better off, too. As for Jim, _well_. The utter prick.

On the fifth and sixth days, Bruce didn’t get out of bed at all. He took sleeping pills, tossing and turning his way through mesmerizing dreams. Shattered mirrors, mercury, and vintage celluloid.

Jeremiah was in every single one of them, shape-shifting through roles Jerome had only dreamed of.

On the seventh day, Bruce tossed and turned his way into wakefulness, struggling to perceive what sounded like rapping on his window. He drifted off again, despairingly exhausted.

When he rose an indeterminate amount of time later, his window was open. There was something on his desk, a crinkled envelope from the look. A baby-food jar containing a bullet weighed it down.

 _You ain’t got one in your head_ , read Ecco’s scrawl on the back of the envelope, _but anybody can see you’re nuts. I checked in and J wasn’t home, but I found this. Thought you’d want it back. P.S. Had a friend deliver, seeing as climbing was required. Last favor, she said._

Bruce tore into the envelope, finding it so light that it felt empty. The ruined playing card fell in his hand.

_My lover, my heart. My fearless Jack of Spades. Figure it out._

“Checkmate,” Bruce said, flipping it over to the lipstick-stained face.

If he wasn’t willing to risk death in the endeavor of setting things right, then it wasn’t worth doing. But the trick to it was, he could now see through himself. Pierced by falling sunset, undeniable.

Bruce showered and dressed methodically, lingering over the particulars. The most immaculate black garments he owned; his leather-paneled, worse-for-wear coat. He packed the scant duffel bag he’d brought to the penthouse to begin with, what possessions he had there scarcely filling it.

He put the playing card in one pocket and Ecco’s bullet in the other. Reminders of what he’d become.

On his way to the Stockton subway stop, he approached a key-cutting shop for purposes of breaking in—only to find it had already been broken into. He pulled his ring of keys to Wayne Manor out of the duffel bag, searching through the myriad blanks hanging on the pegboard.

Bruce duplicated his keys one by one. Finding a spare ring for them was easy. He stuck both rings of keys inside his coat, burying his cell phone deeper in its secret pocket. He hadn’t answered it in forty-eight hours, and then it had died.

Insubstantial as a ghost, Bruce passed through the alley and descended the stairs into the subway station.

The lights in Jeremiah’s tunnel were still out, but that came as no surprise. Bruce rummaged in his duffel bag until he came up with his spare flashlight, switching it on. He navigated carefully this time.

He emerged into an empty library, but the desk-lamp had been left on. There were a handful of books scattered across the desk. Engineering treatises and sixteenth through nineteenth century poetry.

Ecco might not have found Jeremiah in the Manor when she dropped by, but occupation was in evidence.

Wandering to the sofa, Bruce dropped down in the precise spot where the imitation of Martha had sat. He laid aside the duffel bag, kicking it out of the way, and sank into the sofa’s plush, familiar back.

Bruce woke to the sensation of a blade at his throat, which wasn’t cause for alarm. He opened his eyes.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out, too,” Jeremiah said without pretense, nodding toward Thomas’s desk.

“Put the knife on the table,” Bruce replied, a subtle order, extending an arm along the back of the sofa.

Jeremiah nodded slowly, gravely, and set it down. He folded his hands, the very picture of obedience.

“All right,” Bruce said, rewarding Jeremiah with a measured smile. “Good. Now, come here.”

Jeremiah scooted over, tipped sidelong, and melted into him. He rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder.

“Didn’t think you were coming back,” he said conversationally, parting Bruce’s coat to set a hand on his chest. He stroked Bruce’s sweater, and then lifted his hand to caress the cut on Bruce’s cheek. “I was wrong.”

Bruce kissed Jeremiah for a leisurely while before tugging at his hips. Jeremiah shifted to straddle him.

Rather than speak, they continued to kiss, unfastening enough clothing for comfort. Jeremiah held Bruce’s gaze as he removed his red gloves one at a time. He touched Bruce with a reverence he’d only ever reserved for the most delicate of his projects, mouthing _my heart_ against Bruce’s jaw.

Once Bruce had recovered, he pulled Jeremiah to him tightly, shirt and sweater rucked up enough for Jeremiah to rut against warm skin. Bruce bit Jeremiah’s earlobe and whispered, _I feel it_.

Jeremiah came with a low, startled laugh, subsiding into a blissful sigh as his movements stilled.

They didn’t know how to do this, but Bruce wasn’t troubled. It was fine. They would figure it out.

Bruce let them rest that way for a while, and then cleaned them with Jeremiah’s handkerchief. Afterward, he reached inside his coat, rummaging in his cell-phone pocket. Jeremiah gave him a questioning look.

Bruce held up the spare ring of keys, answering an overdue toast. “Welcome home, Jeremiah,” he said.


	2. Just As It Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all can [blame Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElQQE-FkJQ) for this. And unfinished business from the first bit, of course.

Bruce had been absent for a while since their post-reunion snooze, having insisted that making them dinner was the least he could do. Frankly, the gesture was adorable. He’d removed his sweater and draped it over the back of the sofa before leaving Jeremiah to lounge there.

Jeremiah, being practical, had removed his ruined shirt and donned it. Lacking anything useful to do while he waited, he went to the desk to resume his reading.

Putting on his glasses, once part of his morning routine, was now an action reserved for study. They didn’t send the right message, so Jeremiah had quit wearing them in public.

John Donne was nowhere near as boring as Jeremiah’s schoolmates had made him out to be.

Jeremiah was bent over the book, engrossed, when the sound of Bruce’s return dimly registered. The clink of china and cutlery being placed on the coffee table was already comforting, a sign in conjunction with his gift of a key-ring that Bruce intended to keep his word.

Bruce’s footsteps didn’t prevent Jeremiah from finishing the stanza he was on, but the familiar jolt of Bruce’s hand coming down on the pages of his book _did_. He looked up.

Bruce froze in the act of opening his mouth. Whatever he’d meant to say had flown the coop, but it was clear he’d retained wits enough to formulate an alternative response.

Jeremiah didn’t dare move while Bruce carefully removed his glasses and set them aside. He closed his eyes and leaned into the sudden warmth of Bruce’s palms cupping his face, sighing against Bruce’s lips as he leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss.

“I’m flattered, don’t get me wrong,” Jeremiah said as they broke apart, “but what was that for?”

“It’s just that…” Bruce dithered, considering his words. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Changed by my brother’s concoction or not,” Jeremiah said, indicating his eyes, “my vision wasn’t corrected. Eye strain’s an inconvenience.”

Bruce tugged at Jeremiah’s hands until he rose and came around the desk. He looked apologetic.

“Bread, cheese, and pickle were the only viable things in the fridge. We’re having a repeat.”

“That’s fitting. I want a do-over,” Jeremiah replied, happily led to the sofa. “Dinner, conversation, and getting to court _properly_ this time, Bruce.”

Bruce frowned as Jeremiah sat down close beside him. He picked up half his sandwich and bit. 

“Jeremiah, the night I came here and…did what I did,” he said, swallowing with difficulty. “Before then, had you ever…been with anyone like that?” 

“There were a few boys in college,” said Jeremiah, methodically spreading Branston Pickle on the top of his sandwich-halves. “They wanted me, I could tell. But I didn’t have time for that kind of thing, not back then. Now, with you? Time is all I’ve got.”

“I never had time for it, either,” Bruce said. “I pretended for a while. You saw it on the news.”

The knowledge that Bruce had meant the same thing when he said he’d given Jeremiah _everything_ incited pride and anxiety in equal measure.

“Tell me,” he began, uncertain of how to phrase it decorously, “was I good for you that night?”

“I wasn’t good for you,” Bruce said with guilt-ridden regret. “I wasn’t good _to_ you.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Jeremiah replied, suddenly apprehensive. He took a hesitant bite.

“Yes,” Bruce said, reaching out to ruefully caress Jeremiah’s bruised cheek, “you were.”

Flushing too warm for what he was wearing, Jeremiah focused on taking as many crust-avoidant bites of the sandwich as he could. He dropped the remnant on his plate.

“What?” Bruce prompted. He set down his own mangled crust. “Did I say something wrong?”

Jeremiah closed his eyes, feeling for all the world like they were back in his old workspace.

“Just the feel of your body against mine drives me out of my _mind_ ,” he said, his cheeks burning. “You were good for me, too. As good as you could be given our…terms.”

“I’ll never do something like that again unless you ask,” replied Bruce, solemnly. “I promise.”

Jeremiah opened his eyes, realizing this admission had gone over brilliantly. Bruce’s cheeks were flushed, too, and his hand had crept dangerously close to Jeremiah’s thigh.

“I’d almost rather _you_ asked,” Jeremiah insisted. “Give me the chance to refuse or accept.”

“Tonight,” replied Bruce, resolutely, stacking their unfinished plates. “What do you want?”

“No tying me up, even though it was fun,” Jeremiah said primly. “I want to hold you this time. I want to pick up where we left off behind the mirrors. I want to make you _scream_.”

Bruce, who had risen with the plates in hand as if he intended to take them to the kitchen, set the plates back down with clatter. He grabbed Jeremiah’s hands instead, hauling him up.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked, giving Jeremiah an obvious way out. “We can finish if you—”

Jeremiah took Bruce’s infuriatingly handsome face in both hands and silenced him with a kiss.

“Only for you,” he quipped breathlessly, winking at Bruce. “Think we should take it upstairs?”

Being dragged by the wrist was more efficient than being dragged by the hair. More pleasant, too, if Jeremiah was honest, but there was something to be said for a dash of pain.

How lovely of Bruce to settle him on the edge of the mattress with a kiss to the forehead. Lovelier still to be treated to Bruce’s frank, simmering gaze while he slowly undressed. This was the only kind of strip-tease he knew how to do. It was sweet.

Once Bruce was naked—lithe and restless, so _impossibly_ thrilling to see him with the lights on—he made Jeremiah lift his arms. Wrestling him out of the sweater made them both laugh.

When Bruce went down on his knees to unfasten Jeremiah’s trousers, Jeremiah stilled his hands.

“I have dibs on ravishing you,” he asked shakily, his fingers twitching as Bruce threw them off and continued, “so what’s this about?”

“Do you like the thought of me blowing you?” Bruce asked, startlingly forthright. “I want to.”

His chest seizing, Jeremiah struggled for breath. He nodded, gasping when Bruce slipped a hand inside his boxers and stroked him. Even odds said he might come before Bruce even got a chance to use his mouth, but Jeremiah was too besotted to care.

Sensing the risk, Bruce withdrew his hand and helped Jeremiah remove his bottom layers. He got to his feet and nudged at Jeremiah’s shoulders, backing him down on the bed.

Wisely, Bruce avoided putting weight on any part of him. He mouthed his way from the hollow of Jeremiah’s throat down to the regrettable constellation of scars on his chest and torso.

“If I’d been conscious when they were fresh,” Jeremiah slurred, shivering at the feel of Bruce’s tongue gliding over the lowest one, “I would’ve asked you to kiss them better.”

“Would’ve been too soon,” said Bruce, and finally put his fingers where Jeremiah wanted them most. He worked back Jeremiah’s foreskin and brushed his tongue beneath the head, kissing it.

Jeremiah couldn’t help moaning just like he had when Bruce pinned him to the wall—and couldn’t help climaxing instantly, either. He still had no idea if Bruce had realized…

“You can stop that,” he gasped faintly, scandalized that Bruce was tasting his come.

“Because it bothers you, or because you’re afraid it bothers me?” Bruce asked warily.

“Carry on,” Jeremiah wheezed, deliriously giving Bruce’s hair an experimental yank.

Bruce whimpered, stopped what he was doing, and crawled up to settle against Jeremiah in spite of the mess. He was hard against Jeremiah’s belly, hips jerking beneath Jeremiah’s touch.

“We’re going to need to stock the kitchen,” he said breathily. “There’s not much down there.”

The fact Bruce was trying to make practical conversation while Jeremiah rolled him onto his back and bit his neck was cause for momentary hysteria. Jeremiah struggled to control his laughter, finding that the best tactic was sucking a bruise into the spot he’d bitten.

“We could hit up the Sirens’ least trustworthy supplier later tonight,” he said eventually, when the danger of further irreverence had passed, “or I could ring Ecco, pay her to deliver.”

“Something tells me she won’t,” Bruce said, deliciously strained as Jeremiah rocked against him. “I ran into her that night at Ace Chemicals. She and Ivy were there grabbing stuff she’d left.”

“That’s the so-called Plant Witch, isn’t it? I wondered where those roses were coming from.”

“It also answers the question of who Ecco’s been running with. They seem…good together.”

“Such a pity. Competent assistants are hard to come by. Think we ought to send a card?”

“Queen of Hearts?” Bruce suggested, almost giggling, his first attempt at humor in months. 

“Rascal,” Jeremiah chided, shifting down to tongue at him. “That’s not the kind I meant.”

“Joker,” Bruce shot back, eyes fluttering shut when Jeremiah licked him again. “ _Fuck_.”

Jeremiah rested his chin on Bruce’s hipbone, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Am I funny to you?”

“You’re hilarious when you want to be,” Bruce panted, giving Jeremiah’s hair a coaxing tug.

“Then I’ll make you laugh every chance I get,” Jeremiah promised, back on-task. “For now, making you scream will have to do.”

Maddeningly, that was easier said than done. No matter how diligently Jeremiah teased Bruce, lapping at his sensitive, circumcision-exposed slit—no matter how _mercilessly_ he sucked him, swallowing Bruce’s modest, pretty length so fully his eyes watered—the most Bruce did was whimper.

When Bruce came on Jeremiah’s tongue, salt and strangeness, he choked out Jeremiah’s name.

For half an hour after they’d cleaned up, Bruce did nothing but fuss with Jeremiah’s hair. Lying tangled like this, sated and idly touching, was a revelation in and of itself.

“I’ll grow the ginger back in if you want,” Jeremiah offered, “and knock it off with the dye.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bruce said. “The green suits you. I want you to be comfortable.”

“The only thing in this world that constitutes comfort is having you at my side and in my bed,” Jeremiah replied. “The rest is immaterial.”

Bruce was quiet for a while, perhaps too overwhelmed to speak. He kissed the top of Jeremiah’s head—not one of those quick, thoughtless pecks, but a slow, considered press. He buried his nose in Jeremiah’s hair.

“You said you loved me, once,” Jeremiah whispered, fearfully closing his eyes. “Do you still?”

“Yes,” Bruce whispered back, for once in his fraught life entirely unashamed. “I never stopped.”

“My dear heart,” Jeremiah murmured drowsily, holding him tight. “My fearless Jack, my light.”

“No offense, but I don’t think I’m anyone’s light,” Bruce said. “Selina and Alfred would agree.”

“That’s what you think, sunshine. Have you _seen_ that shadow you cast?”

Jeremiah could hear wonder in Bruce’s voice as he asked, “Why am I your Jack?”

“Because it _suits_ ,” Jeremiah said, nuzzling into Bruce’s chest as Bruce smoothed Jeremiah’s mussed hair. “Because it’s the answer. It’s who you are.”

Bruce was silent for a short while, but his fingers were still moving when he said, “ _Oh_.”

“Speaking of aesthetics,” said Jeremiah, “we’d better figure yours out. Keep the black.”

“I’m not parting with the coat,” Bruce replied, “or the boots. What else do you suggest?”

“Your gloves need a little more flair,” Jeremiah yawned. “You can have my violet ones.”

“Actually, I’d rather have the red,” Bruce said hopefully. “I’d wear them as your favor.”

Overcome with adoration, Jeremiah kissed Bruce’s collarbone. “How can I refuse?”

“You’re probably going to suggest a hat,” Bruce said, teasing by now. “What kind?”

“Zorro’s kind,” Jeremiah mused, “since you’re no longer afraid of _that_ ghost.”

“Or just the mask,” Bruce said. “I’m not sure that it would be practical to have both.”

“Tell it to the fool who calls himself the Riddler,” Jeremiah scoffed. “Say, what’s up with him and…” He gestured. “You know. Birdman.”

“Penguin,” Bruce corrected mildly. “I’m not sure _anyone_ knows the answer to that.”

“Refreshing to have a few mysteries left where the competition’s concerned,” Jeremiah said.

“They’re no mystery,” sighed Bruce. “Their affair’s unclear, but their schemes? Transparent.”

“Then you’ll have to get me all caught up on that,” Jeremiah said, fondly stroking Bruce’s neck.

Unexpectedly, Bruce rolled him over into the pillows. Kissed him slow and deep, relentless.

“Not right now,” he said, resting his forehead against Jeremiah’s. “Have any more requests?”

Elated at his impossible turn of fortune, Jeremiah grinned. “Kiss me again, and I’ll confess.”


	3. Italian Meringue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might not have been immediately obvious when Ivy showed up near the end of the long first story / installment, but it’s extremely apparent in this part that I’m not writing her as the version that replaced Maggie Geha’s Ivy. I will stan Maggie’s version of Ivy till I die, thank you very much, so the Ivy I’m working with is that one. I’m adamantly ignoring that weird drug-induced transformation she went through in S4, but she’s gone on to develop the same enhanced skills with time.

When her phone buzzed in the pattern she’d set for Jeremiah— _Shave and a Haircut_ was a classic—Ecco ignored it. Repairing her Mummer costume, which she and Ivy had nabbed from Ace Chemicals along with some other supplies, was taking longer than it should.

Fortunately, Ivy was good with her hands. _Very_ good, in fact. Watching her work, whether it was the plant stuff or something more practical, was enthralling. Her sewing skills spoke to a childhood not unlike Ecco’s.

Ivy completed the last few stitches between one diamond-shaped armor plate and a section of stab-resistant fabric, and then held it up for Ecco to inspect. Her coppery hair was brighter than Jeremiah’s had ever been, and it framed her steely blue eyes and girlish smile in waves.

“So what d’you think?” Ivy asked, playfully holding the suit up against her own shoulders.

“I think it’s kinda nuts I stopped wearin’ it,” Ecco said, stepping close to her, popping up on tiptoe to kiss Ivy’s chin, “especially since you seem to like it so much.”

Ivy pressed the costume into Ecco’s hands, bending to peck the corner of Ecco’s mouth. They were having fun working on whatever this giddy, fluttery thing between them was. 

Ecco was pretty sure she knew, but Ivy was tender and cautious. No way was Ecco going to push and risk wrecking it, not knowing what she knew about Ivy’s past.

Ecco’s phone buzzed again while she turned her back, stripped, and donned the suit. She could feel the sweep of Ivy’s eyes down her spine.

“ _Somebody’s_ missing you lots,” Ivy retorted. “Tough shit for him. Lucky, lucky me.”

“I keep tellin’ you, it wasn’t really like that,” Ecco sighed, adusting the skintight sleeves at her wrists. “No matter how much I wanted it, J was never gonna swing both ways.”

“Guess not, given the evidence,” Ivy said, her eyes pleasingly wide as Ecco turned toward her. “And Bruce—I’ve known him a long time, since we were kids. He doesn’t have hang-ups, like…ya know when he was doing that party-boy thing and it was all over the news, pretending but also not? Selina says he kissed plenty of boys, too. The whole shebang.”

Ecco’s phone buzzed several more times in succession as Ecco stood still under Ivy’s fussing and adjusting. It was an excuse to be close.

This time, Ivy kissed her full on the lips. “Yeah, you better keep this. Ditch the mask, though.”

“Face-paint’s better anyway,” Ecco agreed giddily, wrapping her arms around Ivy’s neck. “I can fuckin’ see, for one thing. I’ll be a better shot.”

“You’re a great shot to begin with,” Ivy said, at which point Ecco’s phone buzzed _again_.

“I better answer,” Ecco sighed, letting go of Ivy. “If only to tell him where he can shove it.”

“He wasn’t…cruel to you, right?” Ivy asked, clearly trying to ameliorate Ecco’s chagrin. “Like, from what you’ve said, he was just an asshole closer to the end there. Askin’ you to do stuff below your pay-grade? I mean, he didn’t make you wear a maid uniform, did he?”

“Nah,” Ecco said, fetching her phone from the nearby chair. “Yeah, he just got real…bossy, sorta? I mean, okay, he was always bossy,” she said, flipping the phone open, “but he wasn’t always rude. He just got so _annoying_ , the more obsessed he got with—” She blinked at the texts. “Huh. He’s offerin’ to pay me a shit-ton just to make one last food run for him.”

“Like he and Bruce aren’t capable,” Ivy scoffed, folding her arms. “Bet they’re too busy—ooh, jeez, you know what, I don’t wanna think about that.”

Ivy stared at the most recent text, biting her lip. _Money, intel, explosives. Take your pick._

“Money ain’t very useful right now,” she said at length, handing the phone to Ivy, “but info and things that go boom? Might not go amiss.”

“Plus,” Ivy said thoughtfully, smirking as she scrolled through the messages, “Bruce _is_ loaded, not just with cash. Wayne Manor has some awesome antiques in it!”

“This place _is_ lookin’ a little sad, like Selina said,” Ecco replied. “I say let’s do it.”

The Sirens’ dodgiest supplier, the one who skimmed off the top on the regular, was happy to do business with Ecco as always. He didn’t know yet that she wasn’t technically working for Jeremiah anymore, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Vegetables, chicken, meal kits, and some of those precious steaks Penguin bought with bullets. All frozen, coming from some food company’s warehouse the supplier’s goons had taken over.

“Thanks for bein’ flexible about the payment,” Ecco said. “You know Mr. J’s good for it.”

“Mr. J,” Sandeman echoed, chuckling at the turn of phrase. “Looks like he’s loosening up?”

“He won’t have much choice,” Ivy muttered, and Ecco almost flew into delighted hysterics.

“Since when do you work for Valeska?” Sandeman asked Ivy. “They say you’re a witch.”

“Witches need to eat, too,” Ivy replied tetchily. “Sometimes tinctures and spells don’t cut it.”

“C’mon, puddin’,” Ecco cajoled, grabbing her hand. “Let’s load up and blow this joint.”

“Selina said you called her that,” Ivy said, dashing after her. “Do you call everybody that?”

“Nah,” Ecco said, opening the back of the van, and then winked. “Only the cute girls.”

“Yeah,” Ivy sighed, lifting the first heavy parcel, hefting it into the back. “Cat’s damn cute.”

“You’re cuter, so shush up an’ let’s get this over with,” Ecco said, grabbing the nearest box.

They drove into the Dark Zone without incident, although there were clear signs of recent Narrows gang activity. There were several pawns chalked on walls that hadn’t been there when last Ecco had passed through. She wondered if Jeremiah knew.

Hauling the supplies they’d procured down to the tunnel’s entrance took five trips. Ivy was strong—stronger than Ecco, even—but she was panting and miserable by the end of it.

“Nuh-uh,” Ivy gasped, staring down the tunnel, which was uncharacteristically dark. “I love ya, but I’m not hauling this shit through pitch-black.”

“Oh, no need,” Ecco said, rummaging in the back of the van for her flashlight. “We’ll make ’em come up and get it themselves, but we’ve gotta go down to let J know we’re here.”

“You could just text him,” Ivy griped, following Ecco as she swept the flashlight beam ahead of them. “Can he turn the lights on from inside?”

“You’re so clever,” Ecco said, shoving the flashlight at Ivy. “You take over while I do that.”

 _We’ll be at the fireplace in a bit_ , Ecco sent. _Can you get out of bed for 5mins?_

At about the halfway point, the two of them walked hand in hand, Jeremiah sent a response.

_No expectation that you’ll bring the goods down, of course. One of us will meet you._

When they reached the back-side of the hearth, Ivy’s eyes were wonderingly wide. “Cool!”

“It’s the way in from this side of the river,” Ecco said, ushering Ivy ahead of her. “J had a bunch of poor schmucks workin’ on it for months. All to woo the Wayne brat.”

“Goddamn, that’s dedication,” Ivy said, stepping into the dimly-lit library. “Looks like always.”

“Keep forgettin’ you’ve been here,” Ecco said, drawing the Ladysmith from her belt just in case.

“There won’t be any need for that,” said Bruce, emerging from the shadows behind the desk so abruptly that Ecco almost dropped her gun. “You brought the requested supplies?”

“Hiya,” Ivy said, offering him an almost-friendly wave. “It’s nice to see you so often lately.”

“Ivy,” Bruce said, nodding slightly. He shifted his gaze back to Ecco. “Were you followed?”

“Nope, I don’t think,” Ecco said, re-holstering her gun. “And yeah, we brought the stuff.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, ever the gentleman. The more Ecco saw of him, the more she realized there might just be something to Jeremiah’s infatuation. “Have you decided what you’re asking?”

Ecco opened her mouth, glanced at Ivy, and then closed it again. “Uh, kinda. Give us a sec?”

Bruce nodded curtly, stepping around to the front of the desk. He was dressed in a dark terry bathrobe over even darker pajama pants, which made him look younger than his—what was it Ivy had said—eighteen years, _maybe_ nineteen? They were the same age, but Ivy’s sense of time was off.

“I say we ask for some shiny stuff from around the house,” Ivy whispered. “Anything made from silver will both look nice in my place _and_ have trade value. So will jewelry, and I bet there’s tons left over from his parents.”

“We’d be smart to ask for a bomb,” Ecco hissed. “He’s got a bunch just sittin’ around from when this entire place was rigged up. Didn’t use ’em.”

Another flash of movement made Ecco jump, the shape’s posture and gait familiar as anything.

Jeremiah strode in from the hall, unhurried, heading straight for Bruce. He was less put-together than Ecco had seen him since he was injured, hair out of arrangement and falling across his forehead. He was in a plaid flannel robe, blues and greys, and pajama bottoms that looked like Bruce’s. 

Barefoot, without make-up, Jeremiah looked like something out of a horror flick. Zombie-like, but those cool, piercing eyes were alert. There was a fading bruise across his right cheekbone. 

Ecco realized it matched the placement of the still-healing slash on Bruce’s face. _That_ was going to scar. She swallowed the laughter that forced its way up from her chest.

“Are our distinguished guests giving you a hard time?” Jeremiah asked, sliding his arms around Bruce from behind. As his hand came to rest over Bruce’s heart, Bruce clasped it there. 

“Not exactly,” Bruce said, turning his head so that his lips almost brushed Jeremiah’s cheek, “but you have experience negotiating with one of them. They can’t make up their minds.”

Jeremiah resting his chin on Bruce’s shoulder produced a disconnect: such startling softness.

“Ecco,” Jeremiah said, breaking into a calm, but mercurial smile. “Thanks for showing up.”

“What the fuck,” Ivy finally blurted, staring in fascination. “I guess Selina wasn’t lying.”

“Selina has no reason to lie to you,” Bruce said, his thumb stroking absently over the back of Jeremiah’s hand, “but I’d like to know what she said.”

Ecco covered her mouth and turned to face the fireplace, shaking with the hilarity of it all.

“She said she couldn’t believe you dumped her for the hot Valeska twin,” Ivy replied flatly.

Jeremiah’s chuckle had a pleased, but icy quality to it that made Ecco shiver and turn back.

“How flattering,” he said, releasing Bruce so that he could advance on them, “to know that I rate higher than that two-bit buffoon even in the regard of my would-be killer.”

“Two bits,” Ecco said, thinking of her phone’s incessant buzzing. “Listen, J, we ain’t got all night. Stuff to do, folks to shake down. We want anything silver that’s portable.”

Bruce made one of those frowny faces that Jeremiah probably found adorable. “The tea service is only plated, but there are some candlesticks and a water pitcher upstairs. I’ll get them.”

As soon as Bruce had left the room, Jeremiah approached Ivy with a look of frank appraisal.

“That was your stipulation, wasn’t it, Ms. Pepper? Or are you in cahoots with the Magpie?”

“Magpie’s dead,” Ivy said. “Pengy, that little twerp, killed her for breaking into his fortress.”

Ecco watched Jeremiah nod, seemingly impressed, as if that were an understandable action.

“Then there’s one annoyance out of our hair,” he replied. “My condolences if you were close.”

“Nope,” said Ivy, but her jaw clenched. “Unless you meant Penguin? I disagree with how he’s handling this shitshow, and I dunno how Ed’s putting up with it. Love, am I right?”

Jeremiah’s expression softened a fraction, and then he turned his attention expectantly to Ecco.

“Love indeed,” he said, studying her face. “It’s all we can depend on in these…troubled times.”

Bruce came back with a small suitcase in hand. It swung with considerable heft as he set it down in front of Ecco. He stepped back to stand beside Jeremiah, hands clasped behind his back.

“That should more than compensate you for your trouble,” Bruce said. “Is there anything else?”

Ecco glanced at Ivy, eyebrows raised, and Ivy gave her a decisive nod. She looked at Jeremiah.

“We want a bomb,” she told him. “The one you had sittin’ around in here would be just fine.”

Bruce turned his head sharply toward Jeremiah, concerned, as if he meant to protest. In response, Jeremiah cupped Bruce’s cut cheek and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

“Don’t worry your pretty head,” Jeremiah murmured against Bruce’s lips. “We have a dozen, and I can always make more.”

Bruce leaned into the touch. Ecco heard Ivy give a stifled gasp when he kissed Jeremiah’s palm.

“I trust your judgment,” Bruce said, easing Jeremiah’s hand down to clasp it at his side. “We should carry it up for them. It’s heavy, and we need to bring down the supplies anyway.”

“ _Holy_ shit,” Ivy muttered under her breath, and Ecco desperately elbowed her to keep quiet.

“What about Sandeman’s terms of payment?” Jeremiah asked, eyes darting from Ivy to Ecco.

Ecco raised both hands. “That ain’t my department no more. You guys gotta deal with him.”

Jeremiah nodded to Ecco in subdued acquiescence. “One Italian meringue, coming right up.”


	4. Before the Otherness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another installment subtitle for which you can [blame Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElQQE-FkJQ).

The morning after their delivery from Ecco and Ivy, Bruce woke first. He yawned and pressed his face against the back of Jeremiah’s neck.

There was a lingering, chemical trace in the fine hair at Jeremiah’s nape, likely left over from when he’d dyed his hair red for the mirror-maze stunt and then dyed it dark green again. Beneath that, he smelled like sex and sweat, like _himself_.

For the better part of a week, they’d scarcely left Wayne Manor, much less the master bedroom. That they’d been able to subsist on canned soups and various dry goods from the pantry during that time wasn’t surprising. They’d both grown accustomed to scarcity.

“G’morning, sunshine,” Jeremiah mumbled, thumbing at Bruce’s wrist where it rested against his hip. “Breakfast ought to be good if there was bacon anywhere in that haul.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Bruce said, stroking across Jeremiah’s belly, savoring the way Jeremiah’s muscles twitched. “Were there any eggs?”

“Maybe in one of those kits,” Jeremiah said, lifting Bruce’s hand away so he could roll to face him. He nuzzled along Bruce’s jaw and kissed Bruce’s earlobe. “Think we scandalized the ladies sufficient for them to spread rumors?”

“Depends on whether you think Ecco would talk,” Bruce pointed out. “Ivy’s not likely to talk to anyone but Selina, although…” He frowned. “Selina was supposed to be leaving the city. From what they said, she might still be here.”

“Cobblepot and his consort must’ve failed in their exit strategy,” Jeremiah replied. “Maybe it’s taking longer than expected. I couldn’t care less.”

“That’s what’s starting to worry me,” Bruce admitted. “Not that you don’t care about them escaping, because either do I. The world’s still out there, though, and we’ve neglected it. I know Ecco and Ivy said they have no idea what’s going on with the reunification, but…”

Jeremiah was silent for an unusually long time, resting his cheek against Bruce’s shoulder.

“We need to be clear on what we’re doing before we make any decisions. Above and beyond breaking in these sheets, I mean—we’ve made an excellent start on _that_. But we’ve avoided having any real conversations since the night you came back.”

Bruce nodded. “There’s a lot we haven’t talked about. Things from before that might not…”

Jeremiah pushed Bruce onto his back and set a finger over his lips, his eyes still hazy with sleep.

“ _Shhh_. We’ll discuss the hard stuff, _but_ —make me some coffee first. Black, two sugars.”

Once Bruce had fetched their robes and given Jeremiah a good-morning kiss—he was adamant about starting and ending their days on the right note—they wandered down to the kitchen. Bruce made coffee while Jeremiah sat and flipped open his phone.

“Was Ecco your last go-between?” Bruce asked, bringing the French press and mugs over to the table. “I ask because we’ve both made enemies of everyone. Not that I think we need anyone else,” he said, filling Jeremiah’s mug, sweetening it just as Jeremiah had asked.

“She was,” Jeremiah said, unconcerned. He lifted the coffee to his lips and took a sip, covering Bruce’s hand and squeezing it against the table. “You spoil me.” He indicated his phone, which he’d set down in favor of the mug. “Sandeman’s requesting his due. We will need to pay up, and soon. I’d prefer he didn’t hunt down Ecco and take it out on her. She may have quit my employ, but I valued her service.”

“She seemed to think you weren’t the best at showing appreciation,” said Bruce, sipping his coffee bitter and black. “Sorry. I always over-brew it.”

“I could have been more conscientious,” Jeremiah said, rising. He crossed the kitchen and opened the drawer beneath the microwave, rummaging until he came up with two crinkling packets. “These don’t have a patch on omelettes, but surely you miss them as much as I do?”

Bruce nodded reverently, wondering where on earth Jeremiah had gotten his hands on Pop-Tarts.

Jeremiah took care of the toasting, graceful and entirely at ease. The plates he brought back contained two brown sugar and cinnamon pastries each. Bruce had never liked them as much as he liked the s’mores ones, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Something convenient instead of the elaborate breakfast Jeremiah had wanted might mean that he’d devised plans for the day.

Afterward, Jeremiah led Bruce back upstairs to the master bathroom, stripped them both, and spent the first five minutes kissing Bruce under the lukewarm spray. He briefly replaced his lips with his finger, eyes intense as he used Bruce’s hips for balance and went down on his knees.

“If it’s all right with you,” he said, licking Bruce’s belly, “I thought we might take a little excursion. It’s somewhere you used to like.”

Bruce ran his fingers through Jeremiah’s soaked hair, nodding to let Jeremiah know he had permission. If most mornings were going to include Jeremiah wanting to do this, he wouldn’t complain. Jeremiah’s tongue was unfairly precise.

“Where— _ah_ —are we going?” Bruce asked, knees wobbling as Jeremiah’s hands curled around the backs of his thighs. “Supply raid for some new explosives? We should really work on securing the perimeter fence better— _God_. Better than—”

Jeremiah pulled off and said, “As if I don't have that covered.” He stood up and backed Bruce against the tile, pressing into him with a sigh.

Bruce wrapped one arm around Jeremiah’s waist and pressed his other palm between Jeremiah’s shoulder blades, knowing closeness would suffice.

It only took a few more minutes of kissing for Jeremiah to come—stifling his moan against the side of Bruce’s neck, digging his fingers hard into Bruce’s hips. He got back on his knees and took Bruce in his mouth again, sucking with his eyes shut tight and his cheeks pink from the steam.

Pressing his fingertips into the back of Jeremiah’s soaked neck, Bruce tipped his head back and swore. Where Jeremiah seemed hypersensitive to almost every means of sensory stimulation imaginable, cutting off his breath for short intervals didn’t seem to have an effect.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Bruce, shakily, once he’d found use of his voice again.

“It’s a surprise,” Jeremiah replied once he’d caught his breath, reaching for Bruce’s shampoo.

Ready in no time at all, Bruce sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed until Jeremiah emerged from the bathroom with his hair and make-up flawless. He let Bruce help him dress, but wouldn’t give in to any kiss-attempts until he’d shrugged into his jacket.

Downstairs in the library, after they’d put on their coats, Jeremiah put on his violet gloves and fetched his red ones from the coffee table.

“If you’d do me the honor,” Jeremiah said courteously, and Bruce held out his hands one at a time. He finished Bruce’s ensemble by setting his black fedora on Bruce’s head, and then donned his buff-colored one from the corner of the desk. “There we are.”

“Are we going far?” Bruce asked, grabbing Jeremiah’s hand, leading him to the fireplace.

“Far enough that we’ll need to forage lunch at this fantastic abandoned convenience store along the way,” Jeremiah said, taking Bruce’s arm once they’d emerged into the tunnel. “If we behave ourselves, we can bring home some more junk like we had for breakfast.”

Bruce checked his coat pockets for the bullet and the playing card, and then patted his inner pocket to make sure the Colt that Jeremiah had given him was still there. He’d seen Jeremiah put the Derringer up his sleeve before they left the bedroom, and then slip the balisong in his pocket.

“I was hoping the aim might be to misbehave,” Bruce said, curiously disappointed at the notion.

“Maybe we can do some of that when we arrive,” Jeremiah replied, “but not the way you think.”

 _We’re going somewhere else to talk_ , Bruce thought. _Someplace he’ll feel at ease._

Their journey through the Dark Zone was uninterrupted, although Bruce insisted that they pause to examine several signs that Chessmen and Leopards alike were gaining ground. He wondered if Jim knew.

Skirting Oswald’s territory, they encountered a pair of patrollers. Jeremiah shot them, his aim sharper than it had been in Stoker many months ago.

“We should’ve taken the Mustang,” Bruce said doubtfully. “No, never mind. It’s still parked at the penthouse. We’d have to take a detour to get it, and there’s no way to drive it out to the Manor.”

“I don’t care how quiet you think your car is,” Jeremiah said. “We need the reconnaissance.”

They’d slept late enough that the meal they ended up grabbing on the fly from Jeremiah’s intended pit-stop happened around three in the afternoon. Rather than cut through Stoker Cemetery, which loomed ahead, they circumnavigated the periphery by unspoken agreement.

They reached the woods just past four o’clock, at which point the first hints of November dusk had begun to descend. Under the cover of familiar trees, Jeremiah took Bruce’s hand and tugged him along through the sleet-muddied brush until they reached the unmarked road.

“I’ve missed this,” Bruce said as they walked along the shoulder, already certain of their destination. “The walks we used to take out here.”

“This is as much an errand as sentimentality,” Jeremiah admitted. “I also built the fallout-shelter equivalent of a shed and left some things.”

“As long as it wasn’t cratered, too,” Bruce replied, staring off through the trees. “What’s in it?”

“Personal effects,” Jeremiah said curtly. “The letters my mother sent while I was in school.”

Bruce nodded, folding Jeremiah’s arm through his as they slowed their pace. “That’s fine.”

Jeremiah pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on the road, although he clung to Bruce tightly.

“You already know this kind of thing isn’t my wheelhouse. Where do we start, exactly?”

“I realized something,” Bruce said. “We only had one opportunity to talk before…” He decided trailing off would suffice. “The night Jerome died, I felt bad about changing direction and catching up to you after you walked off. But you didn’t tell me to leave you alone.”

“You’d just offered me a grant and then chased after me with an offer of dinner,” said Jeremiah. “Who was I to refuse being so soundly wooed?”

“Every time we were together after that,” Bruce said softly, “you were in pain. Because you went home that night and found...” He sucked in his breath, determined to continue. “It must’ve been hell to hide—”

Jeremiah shrugged, but didn’t seem bothered. “Would it have gone any differently if I’d told you sooner? The only thing that really hurt was your insistence on paying for the burial.”

“I did it because I felt responsible for everything he’d done, everything he’d become,” said Bruce, relieved. “I was obsessed, but I didn’t love him. Not the way I fell in love with you.”

“According to his journal, my brother wanted to do more to you covered in honey than just feed you to corpse beetles,” said Jeremiah. “It was grotesque, utterly _uncouth_. My hope is that I’ve shown I intend to love you— _cherish_ you—in a much tenderer fashion than that.”

It was Bruce’s turn to shrug, finding it astonishingly easy to accept their fraught zero-sum game.

“You have. And we’re not lying to each other anymore, Jeremiah. That’s what matters to me.”

Jeremiah’s gaze was distant, perhaps preparing to pull them off-road again to head for his shed.

“You lied to protect me. About that phone-call, I mean. It’s why I told you about the gas, what he did, much sooner than I’d intended. But perhaps I should have confessed to being behind the wake, behind all of the…” He gestured uselessly. “Bruce, even I have regrets.”

Bruce let himself be taken by the wrist instead of the arm and led off the road. He closed his eyes, wistfully recalling what the foxglove-shot undergrowth had looked like in spring.

“In Stoker, when you said you thought we could do great things for the city?” he said, dragging them to a miserable halt. “I wasn’t listening.”

Without skipping a beat, Jeremiah turned and took both of Bruce’s hands. He drew them up to his mouth and mimed a kiss against the back of each, mindful of the fine red leather.

“You said there was no reason to stop thinking that, and I could never have built those—” his lips twisted into a smile “—meringues without your help. Ergo, as far as listening? You were.”

“No, Jeremiah, I wasn’t,” Bruce replied with fiercely stubborn conviction, “but I am now.”


	5. Card Trick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other features of this AU: Tabitha isn’t dead, and Barbara isn’t pregnant. Fuck all that punishing-the-Sirens noise.

Tabitha lingered at Barbara’s side as they watched a curl of smoke rise across the city. It wasn’t sustained enough to be one of Firefly’s raids.

Barbara knocked back what was left of her whiskey sour. “Looks like an incursion on Tetch.”

“He was freelancing for Valeska last I heard,” Tabitha said, “but Valeska’s gone quiet again.”

“Last I heard,” said Barbara, darkly, “Bruce packed a bag and vanished. That was almost a month ago. Probably off to find that freak and end him. That kid’s got a martyr complex big enough to give Jim a run for his money.”

Uneasily, Tabitha slid onto the stool next to her. What intel she’d gleaned in the last few days was intriguing. She couldn’t say she disapproved of some of it, but the majority filled her with indefinable dread.

Edward hadn’t been happy about being sent to share the security briefing with Tabitha, but information-swapping was useful.

It was one thing to hear about new riffraff on the block and not have to deal with it firsthand. It was quite another to be shown grainy footage revealing at least one of the strangers, the figure in the tastefully muted plaid coat, to be a crack shot, twice in rapid sequence, at about ten yards.

She hadn’t been able to tell much about the other figure, except that they had a broad-brimmed hat like the shooter and wore mostly black.

“There’s evidence to suggest that Ms. Pepper has poached Valeska’s former assistant,” Tabitha said. “That Ecco girl in the bulletproof domino and harlequin face-paint? They’ve expanded beyond the park Ivy’s been holed up in. They’re not calling her a witch anymore.”

“Then what are they calling her?” Barbara asked, refilling her glass with straight-up bourbon.

“Poison Ivy,” Tabitha said, helping herself to a lengthy swig. “Ecco and Ivy. Has a nice ring.”

Barbara swiveled her stool and took back the glass. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Tabitha nodded, staring back out the window. Might as well get the unpleasant part over with.

“There was an incident along Penguin’s southern border about three weeks ago. Two patrollers gunned down, but one of them survived. Said he remembered seeing a figure all in black—wide-brimmed hat, long coat—except for a pair of bright red gloves. That one wasn’t holding a gun, though. The shooter had to have been a second party that got him from behind.”

“Sounds like a new player,” Barbara sighed moodily, swilling her glass. “Just what we need.”

“Oswald’s a bastard, but he’s not stupid,” Tabitha continued. “Ed wired some surveillance.”

Barbara set down her glass and covered Tabitha’s hand. She stroked the back of it, prompting.

Tabitha gritted her teeth, resenting what was left to share. “The shooter might’ve been…”

“Great,” Barbara said sarcastically. “So Valeska got himself some aim and a flashy new assistant. They won’t last long if it’s just the two of them.”

Tabitha closed her eyes and winced. “Sandeman said something this morning. Before I put him out of his misery and strung him up out front.”

“Baby, you’d better tell me what this is all about,” Barbara said, “before I lose my patience.”

Tabitha opened her eyes and forced a stoic smirk. “You know I don’t mind when you do.”

“If Sandeman said something that could shed some light on this,” Barbara insisted, “spill.”

“Last time Ecco purchased on behalf of Valeska, Ivy was with her. The order was exorbitant compared to his usual. He’s got someone to impress.”

“If Ivy and Ecco are still working for that little weasel, then maybe…” Barbara fell silent.

Tabitha was off the stool in a flash, her Glock at the ready. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

Jeremiah strolled into the lounge with his hands in his pockets, flanked by a shadow with its broad-brimmed head bowed. He pointed over his shoulder as the shadow looked up.

“I must say, the security left something to be desired,” he said to his companion. “Didn’t it?”

“Not the challenge I expected,” said Bruce Wayne, extending a Colt in his red-gloved hand.

“What the hell is this, freak?” Barbara demanded. “Did you have Tetch do a number on him?”

Jeremiah made a disapproving face at Tabitha, as if questioning her choice of partner, and then glanced at Bruce. He produced a gun from his sleeve and trained it on Barbara.

“They don’t seem to understand what’s going on,” he said under his breath. “That’s a new one.”

Bruce cocked his revolver and advanced a few steps head of Jeremiah, aiming at Tabitha’s head.

“You think I’m hypnotized?” he asked with arrogant amusement. “Disappointing, is what it is.”

Barbara burst into disbelieving laughter, and Tabitha wanted desperately to tell her to shut up.

“Oh my God,” she said, pointing from Bruce to Jeremiah and back again. “ _You’re_ his new…?”

Jeremiah suddenly looked like was having less fun than Bruce. His calculating eyes narrowed.

“If you mean to suggest Bruce is my assistant,” he said coolly, “you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Partner in crime, then,” Tabitha cut in, sick of the banter. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’ve been trying to contact Sandeman for weeks,” Bruce challenged. “Why did you kill him?”

“Because he’s been skimming off the top,” Barbara said, “and now I know where it was going.”

Jeremiah shrugged, eternally calm, his expression one of composed regret. “We need to eat.”

“He had information we needed,” said Tabitha. “Now it all makes a little too much sense.”

Bruce and Jeremiah exchanged glances. Unnerving, how well they seemed to understand each other.

“Last time I saw you two,” Barbara said, defiantly shooting off her mouth, “there was no love lost.”

“Vulgar,” Jeremiah replied, “the connotation that phrase has accrued in modern usage. If we restore it to its original glory, then no. None lost at all.”

Tabitha knew the reference from _Don Quixote_. She wished to God she’d never read it.

“She meant it the way that most people mean it,” she snapped. “You hated each other’s guts.”

Bruce’s features hardened. “It’s not your concern. We don’t feel obliged to explain ourselves.”

“ _Shhh_ , dear heart,” said Jeremiah, placatingly, “let’s focus and get what we came for.”

“Fine, so it’s like Penguin and Ed redux,” Barbara retorted. “What _did_ you come for?”

“Killing Sandeman, you took out the middle-man,” Jeremiah replied. “We need to do business.”

“We couldn’t have him selling bits and pieces to just anyone,” Tabitha said. “Imagine if Penguin had caught wind and gone directly to the source. That would’ve meant too many bullets in circulation for anyone’s comfort, even yours.”

“We’re _very_ comfortable as long as the consumables flow,” Jeremiah said warningly.

“Christ,” Barbara muttered, turning back to the bar. She drank deeply from the bottle. “We’re arguing with a couple of cranky, lovesick kids about who’s gonna make their dinner.”

Tabitha studied Bruce’s gaunt face, remembering how young he’d been when she first met him. He was eighteen now, if her math was right, and the Valeska twins weren’t much older.

“We’re not leaving till we’ve struck an accord,” Bruce said with restrained fury, “or forced one.”

Still swigging directly from the bottle, Barbara snatched a card from the holder on the bar. Before Tabitha could restrain her, she slid off her stool and marched right over to Jeremiah, who still had a gun aimed at her chest. She held it out to him impatiently.

“What do we do with this?” Jeremiah asked, snatching it with his free hand. “Get free drinks?”

“Call or text when the cupboards are bare,” Barbara said wearily. “We’ll work something out.”

“You’re going to cooperate?” Bruce asked, lowering his gun a fraction. “Appreciated, but why?”

“You wreaking havoc on this city with your boyfriend is gonna give Jim indigestion. Worth it.”

Jeremiah pocketed the card. He lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away. “That’s a step forward.”

The tightness in Tabitha’s chest had taken hold without her consent, a dull, inexplicable ache.

“What happened to you?” she whispered, directing the question at Bruce, who had kept his aim.

Bruce shrugged, glancing at Barbara. When Jeremiah touched his shoulder, he lowered the gun.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. Isn’t this what happens to everyone who gets too close to Jim?”

“Touché,” Barbara relented. “So, boys, how do we contact you?”

Jeremiah withdrew a pair of playing cards and dropped them.


	6. The Shape I'm In Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone lacking a reference-point, yes, the titles of all chapters containing only Bruce and Jeremiah are from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElQQE-FkJQ). Also, timeline-wise, this sequence is set from late 2019 into early 2020; Hanukkah falling so close to Christmas gives that away.

Drafting or reading usually took Jeremiah’s mind off his apprehension for Bruce any time he made an unaccompanied journey through the Dark Zone. Previously, he’d only ever felt such concern in the abstract, knowing full well Bruce could handle himself.

Now, having seen Bruce injured and exhausted as often as Bruce had seen _him_ thus, Jeremiah’s worry only abated when they were side by side.

Jeremiah set aside his pencil and removed his glasses. He checked his watch, leaving the desk in a state of chaos. Completing Wayne Manor’s new generator could wait. Bruce should have returned an hour ago, barring any unplanned hostile encounters.

There were only so many other things Jeremiah could do to distract himself. He'd already spent many painstaking weeks reshuffling the library into a more intuitive sense of order, and next to no cleaning needed doing because he and Bruce had kept after tidying as they went along.

He had already built a spruced-up replacement for the tongue-in-cheek meringue they’d bartered away to Ecco and Ivy. Where actual culinary endeavors were concerned, he’d flipped through the fleet of cookbooks that Alfred had left behind in the kitchen. Most of the recipes looked easier to execute than the average explosive device.

No sooner had Jeremiah shrugged into his coat and reached for his hat than Bruce came in through the fireplace with the expected parcel under his arm. He blinked, puzzled, looking no worse for wear than his cheeks having sustained some wind-burn.

“Were you about to come after me?” Bruce asked, setting the parcel on the coffee table.

“Of course,” Jeremiah said calmly, but the rise in his heart-rate betrayed his composure.

Bruce removed his hat and set it on the coffee table, too. He went to Jeremiah and pushed his coat off his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

Jeremiah was almost ashamed to lean so desperately into Bruce’s kiss, but there was no quelling the urgency of his relief. The equally-relieved sound Bruce huffed into Jeremiah’s mouth was reassuring. He’d been anxious, too.

“Ivy was waiting where you said she’d be,” Bruce said. “She was thrilled to accept a box of Pop-Tarts in exchange for—” he gestured at the taped-shut parcel “—whatever that is.”

“She’s easier to text with than Ecco,” Jeremiah said, leading Bruce around to sit on the sofa. “Cheerful and to the point. As for what this is,” he said, tearing into the brown paper, loosening the interior newsprint padding, “it’s necessary medical provender.”

The two clear spice-jars filled with powder were labeled _PAIN_ and _SLEEP_ in Ivy’s oddly precise handwriting. Beneath each designation, she’d written a small paragraph on what was included in each and what the side-effects were.

Reaching to where Jeremiah had set the items in a row on the coffee table, Bruce bypassed the spice jars and picked up the half-size blue cobalt one. It was unlabeled, and as aesthetically pleasing as it was functional.

“Ivy said you were particularly adamant about one of these,” he said. “What is this?”

Jeremiah took it out of Bruce’s hand. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed it, grateful he hadn’t been so exacting as to have worn his jacket downstairs. Without explanation, he shifted to straddle Bruce’s lap, unscrewed the jar, and dipped his index finger inside.

“Smells like the mallow balm my mother had for burns,” Bruce said, shifting under him.

“Hold still,” Jeremiah murmured, spreading salve across the livid red line on Bruce’s cheek. “Your horticulturally-inclined friend said this will help.”

“Did she say it would make the scar fade?” Bruce asked, sounding worried at the prospect.

“It might,” Jeremiah said, massaging the herbal-smelling stuff into Bruce’s skin. “Giving you this in a prominent spot was...an ill-advised act.”

Bruce took loose hold of Jeremiah’s wrist. “If it’s all the same, I would rather keep the mark.”

Jeremiah paused, holding his breath. “You don’t mind going around with your perfect face—”

“My face is the least of my concerns,” said Bruce, “unless you’d rather not see the reminder.”

Jeremiah resumed massaging the length of the scar. “Let’s call it a precaution toward healing.”

Bruce nodded, kissing the underside of Jeremiah’s wrist when his hand was at the right angle.

“Then we’re going to use it on yours, too,” he said, starting on the buttons of Jeremiah’s shirt.

Flushing warm with the depth of Bruce’s consideration, Jeremiah withdrew his touch from Bruce’s cheek and let his hands fall to either side. He didn’t want to get in Bruce’s way.

Once he’d exposed Jeremiah’s chest, Bruce frowned, tugging the shirt down and off Jeremiah’s shoulders. He paused when Jeremiah kissed him and shrugged it the rest of the way off.

“No need to be so apologetic,” Jeremiah murmured against Bruce’s open mouth. “I’m over it.”

Bruce set his palm against Jeremiah’s left side, spanning up to cover the rise and fall of his ribs.

“I’ll always wish I had gotten there sooner,” he said, reaching for the jar. “That I’d stopped her.”

“She got in eight _very_ respectable blows,” said Jeremiah, in grudging admiration, watching as Bruce rubbed some of the salve over the scar between his fourth and fifth ribs. “That one right there was high enough to puncture the lung.”

“Everyone was right,” Bruce said pensively, taking his time before moving on to the next scar. “It’s a wonder you didn’t die. Who treated you?”

“The cosmetic specialist whose services I’d commissioned for other purposes,” Jeremiah sighed, staring at the ceiling. “He had background as an internist and general surgeon.”

Bruce lifted his free hand to Jeremiah’s jaw, tilting Jeremiah’s head down. “Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Jeremiah reassured him. “Thank goodness for good old doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I’m grateful that there’s no chance he’ll cause trouble for us,” Bruce said, getting some more salve on his fingers, “but it might’ve been useful to keep such a skilled physician.”

“I hadn’t meant for this to dredge up more unpleasantness,” said Jeremiah, regretfully. “I was so busy consulting with Ivy that I haven’t had time to get you a Hanukkah gift. My humblest apologies.”

“It starts tonight, actually. No apologies needed,” Bruce said, breaking into a smile. “And it’s three more days until Christmas, which we also celebrated because it was my father’s family tradition.”

Pensively, Jeremiah averted his eyes, watching Bruce attend to the lowest-placed of his scars.

“Christmas was never that big an affair with me and mine,” he reflected. “Sure, my mother gave us meager gifts. There was usually no time off. Haly’s spent winters in warmer climes so we could work year ’round. Circus life meant no rest for the wicked.”

Bruce finished and leaned forward, placing an open-mouthed kiss against Jeremiah’s sternum.

“You don’t have to go to the trouble,” he murmured. “It’s enough that we’re both here, alive.”

Palms braced against the back of the sofa, Jeremiah closed his eyes and tilted his hips forward. He was still dizzy with Bruce’s touch across the taut skin of his scars, the satisfying burn of it. Pain had never been his thing to the same degree as—as other people he’d known, _but_ —

“What would you say if I were to ask for something,” he said, derailing his own train of thought.

Trailing kisses up to Jeremiah’s neck, Bruce pulled him in until their chests were pressed flush.

“That I’d do it,” he whispered in Jeremiah’s ear. “If you’re sure you want it, I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” Jeremiah breathed, “because a little sting’s gone a long way to making me want more.”

Bruce pulled back and searched Jeremiah’s face. “You said the wax would hold you a while.”

“I said wrong,” Jeremiah replied, staggering off Bruce’s lap with difficulty, offering his hand.

Once they were upstairs, Bruce got down to business undressing them both. It took a lot of the pressure off the energy reserves Jeremiah would need for both the intimacy and its aftermath.

“You haven’t been all that specific,” Bruce said, pinning Jeremiah to the mattress with his full weight once they were naked. “Have you decided you want to be tied up again?”

Gazing up at Bruce, flushed and impatient, Jeremiah shook his head. “You can fuck me now.”

That must have hit on a long-unfulfilled wish, because Bruce bent and kissed Jeremiah silly.

“Don’t know what’s hotter,” he gasped. “That you want me to, or that you don’t swear much.”

“Dirty talk’s not our forté,” Jeremiah said while Bruce scrabbled at the nightstand with endearing clumsiness, “but if you want me to say certain things, I’m beyond sure that I can oblige…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Bruce reassured him, settling on his knees between Jeremiah’s invitingly spread thighs. He slicked his fingers with some lubricant and wrapped his hand around Jeremiah’s erection, lightly stroking. “Fuck, you’re good like this.”

Jeremiah twitched, tossing his head to one side against the rucked duvet. “I hear the appeal.”

Wisely, Bruce paused and dipped lower, pressing behind Jeremiah’s balls. “How’s this—”

“You’ll want to hurry,” Jeremiah said, furious at the worst of his body’s post-transformation betrayals. Hypersensitivity wasn’t an advantage in bed.

“But I shouldn’t,” Bruce said, squeezing more lubricant onto his fingers. “It’s not the best—”

“Didn’t I _say_ I wanted you a bit rough?” Jeremiah hissed, yanking Bruce’s hand back down.

Reacting on impulse, Bruce pinned him to the mattress with a bruising kiss. He worked a finger inside Jeremiah so abruptly that Jeremiah wheezed against Bruce’s lips. The stretch and burn was startling at best and mildly intrusive at worst.

“Yes,” Jeremiah muttered, hooking his heels behind Bruce’s thighs. “Oh, _Bruce_. More.”

“Jesus,” Bruce gasped softly, working in a second and third, driving them deep. “Like this?”

Jeremiah exhaled hard, nodding. He framed Bruce’s sweat-damp face with both shaking hands.

“Don’t…be offended if…if it’s like always,” he laughed breathlessly. “You need…do it now.”

“We’re past the point you could do anything to offend me,” Bruce said, the tremor in his fingers perceptible as he removed them. He stroked himself; the sound was satisfying. “I’ll be right behind you anyway, given…” Words failed as he positioned himself and pushed inside.

Somehow, it was a different kind of pain than Jeremiah had been expecting, but it stole his breath. Bruce’s first thrusts were tentative, so Jeremiah grunted, digging his heels in more sharply. _That_ had a pleasing effect, as Bruce's response was to drive into him harder.

Bruce folded forward and buried his face in Jeremiah’s neck, an eerie, welcome evocation.

“Jeremiah,” he panted, clutching at Jeremiah’s hips, angling into an almost vicious thrust.

It didn’t matter that Bruce dislodged himself in attempting to repeat the action, because Jeremiah was shuddering his way through a climax so intense it nearly _hurt_. Bruce had hit the right spot, as incandescently precise as ever.

Bruce repeated Jeremiah’s name, close enough to the scream Jeremiah had always wanted.

Nowhere near recovered, Jeremiah had enough situational awareness to realize that Bruce was coming as hard as he had, if not harder. Ignoring the mess they’d made—oh, that they were _making_ —Jeremiah wrapped around him, kissing Bruce’s cheek over and over.

When Bruce finally stilled, gasping like there wasn’t enough air in the room, Jeremiah relaxed.

“We’ll be doing that often,” he told Bruce, holding him, dry-mouthed and dazedly content.

“Hope so,” Bruce mumbled, kissing Jeremiah’s cheek several times in retaliation. “I’m tired.”

Jeremiah took point on cleaning them up this time, because Bruce wasn’t good for much beyond sprawling there and looking spectacularly fucked-out. Gorgeous thing to crawl back into bed for, especially since he’d made up his mind about how to solve the gift conundrum.

Once Bruce was asleep, Jeremiah snagged his phone off the nightstand. The gambit was a long shot, but worth an attempt anyway. Bringing up a blank text message to Barbara, whose number he’d added before disposing of her card, he typed:

_Good evening, Ms. Kean. Might I trouble you for a piece of contact information?_


	7. Hard Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where having read [_Triage_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190156) will lend some impactful background on the outsider POV. It’s not mandatory, though.

Taxing day though it had been—his soldiers had halted a hostile attempt by several united gang factions to overthrow the munitions factory, _not_ the first of its kind—Oswald was grateful to be working from the place that he, Martín, and Edward had been calling home.

Well—and Edwina, too. Martín had been adamant about the name, so Olga had dubbed the bulldog Winnie.

Oswald had been quick to ask his son: _Why choose a version of a name that's so close to Edward’s?_

 _So that you can call her Ed_ , Martín had explained, _when our real Ed isn’t here_.

Ed, they had agreed, sounded enough like Dad, which was what Martín had begun to call Oswald as soon as the adoption was legal.

Neither Oswald’s marriage to Edward,  _nor_ his adoption of Martín was public knowledge in a news-reported context. Famously and fiercely protective of his family, Oswald had seen to that for approaching two years. If he’d still been in office, such a thing would have been impossible.

However, it was obvious enough to anyone with a casual eye on Gotham’s elite, underworld or otherwise, that Oswald had been sharing his home with both Edward and the orphan that a few media outlets had erroneously reported dead.

Edward was a paparazzi favorite, because when was the Riddler _not_. But Martín was off-limits.

 _Dad_ , Martín signed from the foot of the staircase, where he sat as he continued to train Winnie to recognize when he was signing for her to roll over, _where’s Ed? He said he would be home early today. I don’t like it when he works alone at the docks._

“That’s a very good point,” Oswald said, rising from his chair, “but he’s not alone. You know that I send the best of our bodyguards with him.”

Winnie jumped up to set her paws on Martín’s knees. She snuffled adoringly and licked his face.

Martín laughed. It was the only sound he ever made; Olga had burst into tears the first time she’d heard him.

 _Winnie_ , he signed, scratching behind her perked-up ears. _That’s not polite at all._

Oswald joined Martín on the staircase, lowering himself with a measure of pained difficulty.

 _You didn’t hurt as much when you used a cane_ , Martín observed. _Switch back._

Putting his arm around the boy, Oswald said, “You know I can’t show our enemies weakness.”

 _Is signing a weakness?_ Martín asked disdainfully, but he was smiling with indulgence.

 _No_ , Oswald signed back. _It certainly is not. You’re right. I’ll think about it._

 _It would make Ed happy_ , Martín continued. _Winnie, too. She hates being sad._

 _I know_ , Oswald replied, sighing. He rubbed the dog’s head. “Should I go find Ed?”

Winnie barked and ran in a tight circle at the sound of the nickname she and Edward shared.

 _Please go get him_ , Martín begged. _Take the rest of our best bodyguards, okay?_

Nearly twelve years old now, Oswald knew his son had more sense than his fathers combined.

“Olga!” Oswald called, hugging Martín before getting to his feet. He turned as the housekeeper appeared. “Please take my son downstairs.”

“I will do this,” she said curtly, breezing down the stairs, tugging the boy to his feet. “We go.”

_Want me to see if I can figure out why Ed was digging around down there last night?_

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Oswald said, texting his security chief. “I’d appreciate it.”

When Martín had asked why the woman who’d tried to steal a useless diamond needed to die, Oswald had explained that Martín was his _real_ treasure. He hadn’t been willing to risk word getting out that the vault was also a bunker where he hid his son during emergencies.

As Oswald’s security detail arrived to escort him out, he reminded himself that any number of aspersions cast in his direction were worth Martín’s safety. He had claimed to Jim, the Sirens, and every other outsider within earshot that Martín had been evacuated to the mainland.

The more attention he’d been able to pin on himself by way of outrageous behavior, the better.

About twenty minutes later, at his dockside warehouse, Oswald found Edward dressed in his flame-resistant coverall, gloves, and headgear.

All of their bodyguards remained outside, and that, Oswald knew, was probably for the best.

Edward turned off the blowtorch, set it down, and flipped up his mask. “Almost done, I swear.”

Oswald folded his arms across his chest, perturbed at the prospect of needing to scold him.

“As Martín reminded me,” he said with impatience, “you were due home over an hour ago.”

Satisfyingly, Edward’s face fell. He removed his helmet and grabbed his coat. There was more heft to it than usual.

“Promise you won’t lose your marbles,” he said, “but we need to stay five more minutes.”

Oswald took several halting steps closer to Edward. “Excuse me, but we need to what?”

“Stay here a few more minutes,” Edward repeated, working his arms through the sleeves of his coat. “I have a business transaction.”

Making a sweeping gesture around the space, Oswald fixed him with an incredulous look.

“There’s nobody else here, my love,” he said, increasingly strained, “and that’s by design!”

“That’s why we need to go outside, Oswald,” Edward said tetchily. “So, are you coming?”

Dangerously close to low-grade fury, Oswald accompanied Edward out the back door. As this side of the building bordered the mine-riddled river, it went unpatrolled when Edward was there. The thought of someone approaching from the water was, quite frankly, laughable.

At the sight of the two hatted figures on the riverbank, Oswald stumbled in outright surprise.

Edward caught him, but only just barely. He steadied Oswald and took a slow, shaky breath.

“No idea what I was expecting,” he said, deadpan, pointing from Bruce Wayne to Jeremiah Valeska and back again, “but this was not it. Since when do you work with _him_?”

Jeremiah glanced sidelong at Bruce, smiling with what Oswald recognized as possessiveness.

“Since the day I was fortunate enough to have him decide to share my life. That’s irrelevant.”

Oswald might have reacted more strongly to Jeremiah’s words if Bruce’s urban-apocalypse gunslinger ensemble hadn’t been so outlandish.

“What exactly is going on,” said Oswald, gesturing up and down, “with all of—um, _this_?”

Bruce squared his shoulders unnecessarily; his expression beneath the fedora was dour.

“Weren’t you listening?” he asked, inclining his head toward Jeremiah. “We’re together.”

“This was _not_ an eventuality I had foreseen,” Edward muttered under his breath.

Oswald stared.  The number of things that must have happened to produce such an event as Bruce Wayne going rogue were unthinkable.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” said Edward, hands held out. “He wasn’t meant to be here.”

Jeremiah was so many shades shy of pleased that pallor made him look like a vengeful ghost.

“I can tell you were no more expecting to see my partner today than I was expecting yours.”

Oswald smirked at the pair of them. “Ah, young love. You’ll get over it soon enough.”

Bruce kissed Jeremiah’s hand. “No offense, but your advice was never the soundest.”

“Excuse me, but since when have you ever even tried to follow it?” Oswald retorted.

Bruce returned Jeremiah’s hand to him apologetically. “The one time you gave it.”

“Isn’t my Jack the perfect gentleman?” Jeremiah asked, beaming serenely at Oswald.

“I could not care _less_ about your lust-fueled descent into madness,” Edward said in Bruce’s direction, and then looked at Jeremiah. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

“Disappointed you would assume it’s as crude as that, Mr. Nygma,” Jeremiah said with distaste, withdrawing a neatly-folded piece of drafting paper from his pocket. “I did.”

As Oswald watched Edward reach into his jacket and exchange a flat, gift-wrapped item for Jeremiah’s offering, the absurdity of the situation hit Oswald without mercy. He laughed.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Oswald said, waving to regain Bruce’s attention, “that there’s some level of _commitment_ here? Unbelievable!”

Jeremiah, in the midst of tucking what Edward had handed over into his coat, turned to Oswald.

“I would advise you not to question the legitimacy of our relationship,” he said levelly, “especially not with Bruce. Last time somebody asked, he pulled a gun on them.”

Oswald couldn’t help but notice that Bruce’s hand had crept inside his dramatic black duster.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” Edward snapped. “I’m coming home, isn’t that what you want?”

“Wise words,” Jeremiah said, breaking into a charming, deadly smile. “Listen to your man.”

The memory of Jerome’s intrusions on his home—on his _family_ —stopped Oswald short.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said, taking what he knew was an ill-advised step toward Bruce, “good day.”

Bruce’s red-gloved hand dipped further into his coat, and then emerged with a pair of cards. He approached Oswald and held them out at arm’s length until Oswald took them.

“For future reference,” Bruce said, touching the brim of his fedora. “Oswald,” he added. “Ed.”

Jeremiah took Bruce’s offered arm and touched his own hat as the two of them turned and left.

Edward closed the space between himself and Oswald, every ounce of fear he’d suppressed during the encounter now showing plainly on his face. He took Oswald in his arms and just held him.

“Things just got more dangerous for us,” Edward said, “and a hell of a lot more so for our son.”

Over Edward’s shoulder, Oswald raised the glossy playing cards and spread them like a hand.

“Joker,” he wondered aloud, tightening his one-armed hold on Edward, “and Jack of Spades?”


	8. The Cold Cut As Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same drill as all previous post-#3, even-numbered installments, i.e. title pulled from Hozier’s “As It Was.”

Bruce could tell from the way Jeremiah carried himself—the slight hunch to his shoulders, the fact he’d withdrawn his tinted sunglasses from his coat and put them on—that the stand-off with Oswald and Edward had discomfited him in some way.

He scarcely spoke as they made their way home, so Bruce didn’t push the issue.

Instead of letting Jeremiah retreat to his engineering and poetry, Bruce led him to the main living room. They’d made an attempt at decorating the day before, but strings of white, blue, and multicolored fairy lights were the most they’d been able to find in storage.

“Take off your coat,” Bruce said, knowing Jeremiah would find orders useful. “Hat and shades, too. Shoes. Stay on the sofa while I get things ready.”

Jeremiah gave him a perplexed look, but he did as he was told without even a hint of resistance.

Bruce turned the overheads down and switched on the fairy lights. He started a fire in the grate, which was welcome given that the library fireplace had been taken out of commission.

By the time Bruce stood and dusted off his hands, Jeremiah looked comfortable. He’d removed his jacket, too, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He sat with his legs crossed, holding the mystery package that Edward had exchanged for an unspecified piece of Jeremiah’s recent drafting work.

“Let’s exchange gifts before you head down to check on the roast and fry up those latkes,” Jeremiah said, tapping the snowflake gift-wrap. “It’s Christmas Eve after all.”

“If I didn’t trust you so much,” Bruce replied, shedding his coat and hat on the armchair, “I’d wonder about all the surprises you’ve been trading for.” He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, walking over to give Jeremiah a kiss. “I need to go get yours.”

“Whatever became of both of us here and alive being enough?” Jeremiah asked, wryly teasing.

“You weren’t going to take my advice any more than I was going to take my advice. Hang on.”

Bruce dashed back to the library and pulled the gift-bag from behind the credenza. Not that he’d done a clever job of hiding it, but Jeremiah was polite enough not to snoop. The courtesy and decorum that existed between them now as a matter of course would have shocked anyone who’d seen them at the height of their conflict. It had gone a long way to confounding both allies and foes.

Several nights before, Jeremiah had asked Bruce, feverish and only half-awake, if he was changing again. Bruce had hushed him and held him close, apprehensively asking what he meant. Barely above a whisper, Jeremiah had muttered something about not finding their situation as funny as he’d found it half a year ago. _It’s all right_ , Bruce had reassured him. _We’re both changing._

Jeremiah pried his gaze away from the grate when Bruce returned, pale eyes and dark hair striking by firelight. He waited patiently as Bruce set the bag down at his feet, went over to the icy window, and added a third candle to the menorah.

The lighting didn’t take long, no longer than it had on the previous two evenings. The only prayer that befitted their perilous new world was the _Shehecheyanu_ , so Bruce said it. He stopped off at the cabinet in the corner and grabbed two tumblers before heading back.

“I could listen to your Hebrew all night,” Jeremiah said, accepting one of the glasses. “Maybe the _Shir ha-Shirim_ sometime if you’re up to it?”

“Thought prophecies and visions weren’t your cup of tea,” replied Bruce, half-smiling, dropping beside him on the sofa-cushion. “You don’t have to protest. I know. There’s nothing particularly mystical about the _Song of Songs_.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jeremiah said, accepting the bag as Bruce handed it to him. “There’s hocus-pocus, and _then_ there’s mysticism. It’s the former I don’t like.” He braced the tumbler between his knees and pulled the bag open, curiously drawing out the bottle. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for his love is better than wine—and so is this whiskey.”

Bruce watched a mesmerized Jeremiah run his fingers over the bottle’s frosted-label surface.

“In the bunker, you kept a decanter off to one side,” he said. “We had some a few times, even. I could tell it was below the standard you prefer.”

“Not to besmirch good old Laphroaig 10-Year,” said Jeremiah, “ _but_ —collectors followed the 2005 release of _this_ stuff with interest.” He tapped the Yamazaki 50-year and finally looked at Bruce, eyes alight. “Fifty bottles produced, sold for a million yen each. Richly sweet and mature, said the tasting notes.” Untying the cord that held the fabric covering in place, he tested the cork-cap’s give and pried it out. “Three years ago, a bottle of this very distillation broke the Guinness World Record when it sold for a hundred and thirty thousand dollars.”

“My father wasn’t the one who insisted on acquiring several bottles when when it was first released,” Bruce explained. “It was my mother. She was an enthusiast.”

Jeremiah stuck the cork halfway back in place, leaning across the top of the bottle. He kissed Bruce like the provenance alone was worth his time.

“Let’s have some,” Jeremiah said roughly, “before I decide I’d rather savor something else.”

Grinning, Bruce took the bottle, pulled the cork back out, and poured them each a double.

Jeremiah clinked his glass off Bruce’s, took a single satisfied sip, and then reached for the gift-wrapped mystery package. He’d stowed it between his thigh and the arm of the sofa.

“Didn’t have time to do the…customization I wanted,” he said, chagrined, handing it over to Bruce. “I still intend to, though, once you’ve had a look and heard my pitch.”

Bruce tore away the wrapping paper, running his fingers over the top of the slim, hinged box. In the lower right-hand corner, it was embossed with the Buckingham Mint logo.

“My grandparents left us a few boxes that looked like this,” he said. “They collected limited-edition sets of silver art bars.”

“Worse for wear, given this set was struck in 1982 or some such,” said Jeremiah. "It’s not the box that counts. Open it.”

Bruce cracked it open, startled to notice all but four of the rectangular slots in the black-velvet interior were empty. At one point, there must have been around fifty— _oh_.

The four central slots, which surely once held Aces, held two telltale pairs of silver cards.

“They’re perfect,” Bruce said, brushing the velvet beneath them so as not to smudge the mirror-perfect surfaces of the half-inch by one-inch Jokers and Jacks. “The set would’ve only come with one Jack of Spades, though. How did you manage the duplication?”

“Dumb luck,” replied Jeremiah, with fond irony. “All I did was tell our riddle-obsessed colleague that I needed him to raid the vault for gambling-related bullion. When he got back to me saying there were two complete sets of these, I thought about design possibilities for an hour or so. You were asleep at the time. I asked if he’d have any compunctions against emptying one of the boxes and letting me have two of the four Jokers and both Jacks of Spades. He said that, for what I was offering to do for him, that was a pittance.”

“That’s why you were busy in the library for most of yesterday evening after we decorated, wasn’t it?” Bruce asked, admiring the delicate two-ounce pieces for another half-minute before closing the box. “You said something about customization.”

“He emailed a portion of his submarine design,” Jeremiah confirmed. “I improved it. At this point, nobody wants him and Birdman gone more than I do.” He nodded, suddenly nervous. “Thought I might solder the pairs back to back, seeing as there’s nothing of interest on the reverse, and then drill through. Something for our key-rings, maybe, since—”

Bruce kissed him quiet, almost knocking his whiskey over in Jeremiah’s lap. “Sorry.”

“Didn’t know what you’d make of…” Jeremiah pecked Bruce’s cheek. “Like them?”

“Key-chain ornaments are a great thought, but silver scratches too easily,” Bruce said. “Why should we put them there if you can add bails without drilling? I’d rather wear mine.”

Jeremiah took a gulp of his whiskey, as if he couldn’t believe his dumb luck had increased.

“Nothing would please me more than knowing you had this around your neck,” he confessed.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bruce said, “but I like the thought of you wearing yours, too.”

“Well, there’s five nights left,” said Jeremiah, winking at him. “I’m pretty sure I can deliver.”

“There are plenty of chains upstairs in the safe,” Bruce replied. “I can take care of that part.”

“I texted Nygma in thanks, but no response,” Jeremiah said, leaning into the curve of Bruce’s arm as he continued to sip his whiskey. “That’s downright inconsiderate.”

“He and Oswald probably got over being shocked for long enough to realize we were the ones who killed one of his patrollers and injured the other. The red-gloves detail matches up.”

Jeremiah shrugged placidly. “They drew their weapons on us. I did what needed to be done.”

Bruce kissed Jeremiah’s temple, stroking his hip. “Only because you beat me to the punch.”

“The idea was to keep you _from_ throwing punches, seeing as that’s your default.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce replied thoughtfully. “It used to be, but I’m warming up to firearms.”

“I only use a knife when I want to get close to someone,” Jeremiah said. “Seems it worked.”


	9. Kill Switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As readers familiar with my [DDO ’Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/726708) know, Making Jim Gordon Suffer is a hobby of mine. This is no different.

Just past midnight, as the rest of the night shift continued to cheer and blow party horns, Harvey went on rifling through cold-case files. He and Jim had nobody to go home to but each other, so they were at the precinct all hours they could stand to stay awake.

Holidays just weren’t the same at the end of the world, no matter how much ratty tinsel and stale candy canes you put up. It was never going to be enough to cover all the _HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!_ graffiti that Jerome’s goons had left all over the station.

At this point, Harvey’s number-one fantasy involved rounding up what was left of those yahoos, having Jervis Tetch hypnotize them into GCPD-exclusive obedience, and turning them loose on scrubbing down the whole damn precinct.

You knew he had to be pretty fucking serious if he was considering asking Tetch for _anything_.

Judging by the lack of new Valeska-cult graffiti in the streets, period, chances were high that Jeremiah had killed them all off when he was done with them. Which was sort of a shame if you thought about it too hard, because _he_ made those clowns look downright sane.

Harper knocked tentatively on the open file-room door. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“C’mon in,” Harvey sighed, downing the rest of his cold coffee. “Ain’t havin’ luck anyhow.”

“This comes from a place of love, but you look like hell,” said Harper, patting his shoulder. “What I’ve got for you isn’t going to help.”

“Go ahead,” Harvey replied, banging the drawer shut. “Make my apocalyptic New Year’s. That 2012 shit’s eight years late. Can’t get any worse.”

As if to challenge that statement, Harper tilted her head at him, and Harvey felt his stomach sink.

“Know the young woman in a harlequin suit and jester’s cap that my patrol picked up like half an hour ago for breaking and entering down at the Garden Center? She says her name’s Ecco and that she has some information for you and Jim in exchange for her release.”

Recognition went off in Harvey’s head like lights in a pinball machine. That girl in the bunker.

“Ask her why we should even bother,” he said, playing it cautious. “Info’s cheap in this city, and narcs are even cheaper.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Harper shifted her stance uncomfortably. She meant business.

“This Ecco claims she has details on the whereabouts of Bruce Wayne and Jeremiah Valeska.”

“We finally hit the jackpot,” Harvey said, grabbing his suit jacket. “Which interrogation room? I’ll head over while you get Jim.”

“Aye aye,” Harper said, breaking a tired smile as she turned to go. “The suspect’s in Room 2.”

By the time Harvey had swung by the machine for more coffee and made his way to the interrogation room, Jim was already there.

Ecco was almost unrecognizable with the face-paint and costume, but several strands of telltale blond hair had escaped her jingly cap. She stared defiantly back and forth between the two of them.

“She said she wouldn’t talk until we both got here,” Jim said dryly. “D’you recognize her?”

“You bet,” Harvey said, slurping his coffee. “That’s Jeremiah Valeska’s assistant all right.”

“ _Former_ assistant,” snapped Ecco, huffily. “I left his operation for greener pastures.”

“What were you doing stealing a bunch of supplies from the Garden Center?” Jim asked her.

Ecco shrugged cheerfully. “Pickin’ up a few belated holiday gifts for my girlfriend. Duh.”

“Harper told us you have information you’d like to share about your former boss’s whereabouts,” Harvey said. “If it's useful, we’ll let you walk.”

“Harvey,” Jim said warningly, and then covered his eyes, groaning. “Yep, that’s right.”

“It’s more than that, didn’t Vanessa say?” Ecco asked incredulously, gesturing with her cuffed hands. “Find Mr. J, and you find Bruce Wayne, too.”

“We’ve heard a number of unsubstantiated rumors that the outlaws Oswald Cobblepot reported about a week ago, known as Joker and Jack of Spades, might well be Valeska and Wayne.”

“Penguin was cagey,” Harvey added. “Like he always is. Seemed too scared to make a positive identification, but if _you_ can help us out with that...”

“I dunno nothin’ about playing cards,” Ecco said, “but I can tell you Jeremiah Valeska and Bruce Wayne have been shacked up all cozy at Wayne Manor for like...six weeks, maybe more? Saw ’em with my own eyes. They paid me to deliver food. Awful lovey-dovey, those two.”

“Wayne Manor’s in the Palisades, hemmed in by the harbor and forks of the river, not easy to reach,” said Jim. “How did you get back and forth?”

“Didn’t Bruce tell you about the tunnel? He was usin’ it for a while before he and Mr. J quit messin’ around and fell into bed already.”

“Oh my God,” Harvey muttered, rubbing his face. “That’s where we helped Bruce get a badly-injured...” He stopped himself. “Know what? I just hope you’re speaking figuratively.”

Ecco adamantly shook her head. “Nah, they’re goin’ at it like crazy. And I _know_ crazy.”

Jim had the most deeply troubled, yet unsurprised look on his face that Harvey had ever seen.

“Thank you for your help, Ecco,” he said dully, turning to leave the room. “Harv, unlock the cuffs and let her go. Meet me out back at the van.”

Finding the tunnel again was easy as pie, on account of it being adjacent to the Stockton stop, but making their way down it for the first time was dicey. Their flashlight-beams showed electric lights wired overhead, but there was no way to turn them on.

“This is some horror-movie shit,” Harvey said as they emerged from the hearth. “The _hell_?”

“We’re in the library of Wayne Manor,” Jim said, sweeping his flashlight around, revealing signs of life.

The desk looked exactly like Jeremiah’s nerdy set-up in the bunker.

“If anyone’s here,” Harvey said, “they’re upstairs. Even loony tunes need to sleep sometime.”

The hall light upstairs was on, a startlingly normal thing to encounter in any house at night.

Jim seemed to know which fractionally-open bedroom door to try first, so Harvey followed.

Light spilled into the room as Jim pushed it wide, revealing that the bed was indeed occupied. At least the perps curled up in it together were wearing something resembling pajamas.

“If you don’t get out of here right now,” said Jeremiah, sleepily, swiping what Harvey recognized as a detonator off the nightstand, “I’ll blow the entire Manor sky-high.”

“He’s not lying,” Bruce confirmed, propping himself up on one elbow. “The generator’s been upgraded to one of Jeremiah’s design that Ra’s used to blow out the bridges.”

“Wait,” said Jim, confused. “Ra’s al Ghul, who was dead last I checked, is the one behind this?”

Jeremiah snuggled closer against Bruce, cuddling the detonator like a goddamn teddy bear. The risk of him accidentally hitting that button was enough to make Harvey break a cold sweat.

Bruce nodded somberly. “Ra’s _was_ dead. I’m the one who killed him the first time. But then…know what, the how isn’t important. His followers found a way to resurrect him, and I ended up having to kill him again. You can even ask Barbara. She helped.”

“And the whole bombing bridges thing happened just _before_ you did that?” Jim retorted.

“There was a great deal of chaos that night,” said Jeremiah, wearily, and sat up. “Ra’s al Ghul’s crew absconded with my devices and decided that cutting the city off was the perfect way to fulfill some so-called prophecy. I don’t subscribe to that sort of nonsense, Captain Gordon. I gave you six hours to evacuate the city ahead of my planned demolition and reconstruction, which included no such plans as destroying access to the mainland.”

“Ironic, given that your biological father was a psychic,” Jim said, chewing the inside of his lip.

Shrugging, Jeremiah sagged and rested his head against Bruce’s shoulder. It was nauseating.

“Doesn’t mean I approve, Captain. Besides, I was ten when they sent me away. The only thing I cared about was escaping my brother, which…I thought you understood.”

“Listen, all I know’s that we’ve got reports that you two have been running around terrorizing folks as Joker and Jack of Spades,” Harvey interjected angrily, relaxing as Jeremiah’s grasp on the detonator loosened. “What exactly are we supposed to do about that?”

“Who made the reports?” Bruce asked, rubbing Jeremiah’s back as if to comfort the bastard. “Oswald Cobblepot? He’s the only other criminal who considers us a threat. I’m happy to tell you why. Two of his patrollers threatened us without cause when we came into the city for supplies. There was no terror involved. We had to shoot them in self-defense.”

Jim’s frown deepened, and the inside of his lip was probably bleeding. “You’d swear on that?”

“Do you consider us sane enough to swear on it?” Bruce challenged. “I’d like to remind you that you’re trespassing. From my perspective, you don’t have much to stand on.”

“There are no words,” said Harvey, “for how much Jim hates you two nut-jobs. I came here with intent to mediate, but fucked if I’m not even more done with this than he is!”

“Harv, we’ve gotta go,” Jim said stiffly, tugging at Harvey’s elbow. “Much as I hate to say it.”

“Detective Bullock,” Jeremiah ventured, leaning forward, creepy eyes zeroing in on Harvey’s belt, “mind leaving those cuffs as reparations? We’ve been making do with ties.”

“Hell no,” Harvey seethed, turning his back, stalking out. “I’m gonna need ’em for next time.”


	10. Nights Were As Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElQQE-FkJQ) continues to let me plunder it for alternating chapter titles. That vid gets some phrases wrong; right words [are here](https://genius.com/Hozier-as-it-was-lyrics).

Jeremiah lay silent for a while in the wake of the officers’ departure, aware that Bruce was ruminating, too. They’d said nothing once they were alone again, too hard-hit by adrenaline crash to do anything but fall back against the pillows and let their heart-rates slow.

“Is revulsion all I’ll ever meet with,” he said at length, “when the person in front of us can’t believe that someone like you would want—”

“Don’t say that,” Bruce chided, rolling onto his side, turning Jeremiah’s face toward him. He reached over and put the detonator on the nightstand.

“You saw Bullock’s face,” Jeremiah said tonelessly, “when he realized what we are. It didn’t even have the _slightest_ to do with our supposed crimes.”

Bruce’s indignant concern was livid, the storm-fretted shade of his eyes eerie with borrowed light from the hall. He raked Jeremiah’s hair back from his forehead, the touch electric, and then used the edge of the sheet to dry the sheen of sweat from Jeremiah’s skin.

“Do you want me to kill them?” he asked, so guilelessly sincere that the spark became a shock.

“Dear heart,” Jeremiah sighed, all the tension draining from him, closing his eyes. “Not yet.”

“I understand that they’re still useful to us as long as they can be manipulated,” Bruce went on, “but not at the expense of your sanity.”

At that, Jeremiah laughed so breathlessly that the fit of dire amusement left tears in his eyes.

“See, there’s the rub,” he managed. “You were onto something with that question you asked.”

Nodding pensively, Bruce used the sheet to dab Jeremiah’s cheeks. “They don’t believe we are.”

“That’s where the disgust comes in,” Jeremiah said, sobering, offense on Bruce’s behalf flaring in his chest. “It’s not my presence here. It’s _yours_.”

Bruce shrugged, letting go of the sheet. He pressed his palm flat against Jeremiah’s chest, slipping his fingers between Jeremiah’s pajama buttons.

“If I cared about what they think of who I’ve chosen,” he murmured, “then I wouldn’t be…”

Jeremiah met Bruce halfway, parting his lips at the fierce persistence of Bruce’s mouth.

“Happy New Year,” he mumbled, comforted by Bruce’s enthusiasm. “We slept through it.”

“You worked through yesterday on the generator,” Bruce reminded him, “and the pendants.”

“I’ve neglected you,” Jeremiah said ruefully, stroking Bruce’s neck, sighing as Bruce rolled to settle on top of him. “Can I make amends?”

Bruce pressed his cheek to Jeremiah’s, the brush of his eyelashes a delicate frisson, almost shy.

“You can, but I’m concerned about the intrusion. Someone told them they would find us here.”

“It was a no-brainer,” Jeremiah soothed, combing his fingers through Bruce’s unruly hair. “They knew about the tunnel from when they…collected you the once. Matter of time.”

“They more or less confirmed that Oswald’s the one who reported us,” Bruce said. “He’ll pay.”

“Courtesy of my ensuring that the submarine will work,” Jeremiah said, “he’ll soon be gone.”

“Fine,” Bruce muttered, turning his head to kiss Jeremiah’s flushed cheek. “What about Ecco?”

“Even if Ecco told them, it doesn’t matter,” Jeremiah insisted. “They would’ve figured it out.”

“You care for her a great deal,” Bruce said softly, conceding assent. “She’ll remain useful, too.”

“Ecco was my only friend in the world until you came along,” Jeremiah replied. “That counts.”

“She’d betray you to protect Ivy,” Bruce cautioned, “just like I betrayed Alfred to protect you.”

Jeremiah squirmed beneath Bruce’s weight. The intensity of Bruce’s gaze was mesmerizing.

“I betrayed my own flesh and blood to have this,” he said, unrepentant. “To have you, Bruce.”

Inhaling, Bruce nuzzled his way to Jeremiah’s earlobe and bit down, the sting of it brilliant.

“Can I ask for something?” he whispered, the darkness in his tone nothing short of palpable.

“Anything, I already told you,” Jeremiah gasped, nodding instantly. “Yours to command.”

“It’s not the best for beginners,” said Bruce, abruptly chagrined, “but I want to ride you.”

Jeremiah couldn’t quite form words in response to something he hadn’t known _how_ to ask for, so he just nodded again.

“Good,” Bruce said, leaving Jeremiah with another kiss on the cheek, and got up. “Undress.”

Struggling out of his pajamas while Bruce turned on the bedside lamp, Jeremiah twisted sideways to watch Bruce strip, too. There was a no-nonsense grace about him, like he didn’t care who saw. He scooted to the edge of the mattress, reaching to touch Bruce’s hip.

Bruce caught Jeremiah’s fingers there and held on, shaking the lubricant with a frown. “Low.”

Jeremiah withdrew his hand and sat up, bunching pillows behind him. “Then make it count.”

Climbing back into bed with the tube in hand, Bruce awkwardly straddled Jeremiah’s lap.

“My pain threshold’s as high as yours, maybe higher,” he said, endearingly serious. “It’s fine.”

Touching the thin, fading pink line on Bruce’s cheek, Jeremiah felt his chest seize at the sight.

“Do you want me to—” he took the tube from Bruce and uncapped it “—try to do this, or—”

“Better if…” Bruce was visibly blushing as he took it back. “I’ve tried things on myself.”

Jeremiah felt his pulse ratchet up a notch. He moaned when Bruce kissed him, Bruce’s hips tilting until they were flush. His cock twitched at the feel of Bruce’s hard against him.

“I could come like this,” he mumbled, aware that Bruce, weight braced on his knees, had used the distraction to get lubricant on his fingers and reach behind himself. “You could…”

“Yes, the—” Bruce made a noise that had Jeremiah’s skin prickling in seconds, already working himself open one-handed “—chance of failure is high, but let’s—not call it that.”

Jeremiah pressed a kiss against Bruce’s collarbone, hands firm on Bruce’s hips to balance him.

“Take me however you want,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even. “I’m rea— _oh_.”

“ _Shhh_ , breathe,” Bruce said, his sticky hand suddenly slicking both of them. “Close?”

Jeremiah closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I won’t. I _won’t_ —”

“Okay,” Bruce said, sounding too steady given what he’d been doing. “Jeremiah. Here.”

Opening his eyes for what came next, Jeremiah focused on Bruce’s trembling left hand braced on his shoulder and his own left hand braced on Bruce’s hip. Getting him into position, so to speak, was a two person job, and—well, it was _funny_.

Bruce’s laughter broke on a ragged gasp when Jeremiah slid fully into him, helplessly shaking.

Jeremiah sank deeper into the pillows, letting Bruce push at him until the angle was comfortable. He noted every subtle change in Bruce’s expression to quantify what it felt like to be connected like this, driven to distraction by bliss.

Bruce shifted experimentally once he’d settled, squeezing his eyes shut. With each slight movement, his erection grazed Jeremiah’s belly. His features contorted in pleasure when Jeremiah pulled him even closer.

“Oh,” he said, scrabbling at Jeremiah’s shoulders as Jeremiah adjusted them again. “ _That_.”

“Won’t think about anything but what you feel like,” Jeremiah whispered, dizzy with knowing they weren’t even moving that much, “for a week.”

Bruce laughed again—strained, but still beautiful—and opened his eyes. “Same, I—same.”

Jeremiah found jerking up into him difficult given the angle, but the result was sublime.

“Bruce, I’m,” he warned, already lost in the onset. He clung to Bruce and came, sobbing with it.

“Yeah,” Bruce whimpered, a breath behind, tensing with each pulse between them. “ _Fuck_.”

Hazy with adoration, Jeremiah rocked Bruce in place, enthralled by each startled cry it drew from him. Something about their position was working, so he kept moving until Bruce seemed too wrung-out to continue.

 _There’s so much more to this than lust_ , he thought spitefully, rubbing Bruce’s back.

“Oh God,” Bruce rasped, collapsing forward, causing Jeremiah to slip free of him. “Wow.”

Jeremiah cradled Bruce’s head against his shoulder, too overcome to restrain his conviction.

“They’ll pay for how they look at us,” he promised vehemently. “What we have, they lack.”


	11. House Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What you need to know here, since this part is from Lee’s POV: she did her time as Queen of the Narrows, although she didn’t manage to maintain order in the chaos of the city getting cut off (and she was _never_ involved with Ed). With her community gone (some evacuated, most scattered), she found her way to the Green Zone hospital. Lee is a doctor before she’s anything else.

Lee came back from break to find that Ivy Pepper had returned to her newest patient’s bedside.

Ivy had brought in the other young woman—barely coherent, complaining of severe pain in her neck and at the base of her skull—around two in the morning. A fragmented interview and examination of the scar just below her ear along the hairline had revealed the purported cause.

Lee and the surgeon on duty—their _only_ surgeon—had decided to operate as soon as possible.

They didn’t know the girl’s legal name, and Ivy, embarrassed, hadn’t been able to give it. She’d volunteered to go to Ecco’s apartment, where they’d been hiding, and search until she’d found some form of identification. She’d be no use while Ecco was under.

“I thought you two were occupying the park and about four blocks surrounding,” Lee had said.

“We only had one bomb!” Ivy had shot back, shrugging into her coat. “Bridgit handed our butts to us. You know what fire does to plants, right?”

Now, red-eyed and relieved to see Ecco peacefully sleeping in the recovery room, Ivy sat with a Ziploc containing what looked like several different ID cards in her lap. There were also a checkbook and a few utility bills, which showed thoroughness Lee hadn’t expected.

“Harley Eccles,” Ivy said, offering Lee the entire bag. “She’s twenty-six, but I told you that earlier.”

Lee gave the driver’s license a cursory glance, but she was more interested in the security badge.

“Shoulda told you,” murmured the young woman in the bed, waking far more swiftly than most patients Lee had dealt with. “S’dumb.”

“No,” Ivy said tearfully, getting to her feet, leaning over to take her hands. “No, it’s not. You’re alive, okay? I coulda lost you and Cat any number of times, but I didn’t. Nothing’s dumb, got it?”

“I hate to bombard you with questions,” Lee said, removing the security badge from the Ziploc, “but I can see you worked in a facility with high security clearance where Ecco was your system designation. I’m assuming it’s derived from your surname?”

Harley nodded. “Couple friends called me Ecco in college. Wasn’t a regular thing, but…” She drifted, her eyes fluttering shut, so Ivy gently touched her face. “When Mr.—when Mr. Valeska asked what I wanted my code to be—I gave options. He picked that.”

Lee’s breath caught in her throat. “You worked for Jeremiah Valeska before he lost his mind?”

Harley’s eyes welled up. “After, too. I was runnin’ around in that…” She sniffed. “No more.”

Smiling sympathetically, Lee handed the Ziploc back to Ivy. “What’s your middle initial stand for?”

“Quinn,” Harley slurred, hanging onto consciousness solely thanks to Ivy. “Like my grandma.”

“Not to say Ecco doesn’t suit you,” Lee told her, “but Harley’s a pretty name. Suits you better.”

Ivy was nodding, still in tears, but she was smiling at Harley like she was her entire universe.

“Ecco’s a name _he_ gave you. The bullet’s gone, so maybe it’s time to ditch that, too?”

Lee checked Harley’s vitals, trying not to get in the girls’ way. The implications were troubling.

“Did Jeremiah Valeska put that bullet where I found it?” she asked, unable to keep from prying.

With her eyes closed, already dozing, Harley shook her head. “Nah. Did that all by myself.”

Recording the last information she needed on the clipboard, Lee looked to Ivy in faint dismay.

“You don’t wanna know what it’s been like,” she said, releasing a now-sleeping Harley's hand.

“Oh, I know,” Lee said wryly. “Did you spend any time in the Narrows before we got cut off?”

Ivy shook her head, shrugging. “Most of the time, I’m on my own. This is…new for me, Doc.”

Shaking herself, Lee decided not to point out the unbelievable irony of what Ivy had called her.

“You can stick around for as long as you want,” she said, “but you look like you need rest.”

“I’m stayin’ until she’s out of the woods,” said Ivy. “Don’t you have other folks to check on?”

Lee nodded, placing the chart at the foot of Harley’s bed. “Ring for a nurse if you need one.”

Lee’s longest-term patient had been moved to the wing where the few patients requiring physical therapy were being housed. The stairwell echoed with the clack of her heeled boots as she descended. She didn’t like admitting favoritism, but this went beyond it.

Alfred was in his wheelchair next to the window, reading. One of the nurses must have helped him. For seven in the morning, he looked chipper.

“Always burning the midnight oil,” he said, setting his book over the chair’s arm to mark his place. “Rumor has it you got quite the exciting case?”

“Yep,” Lee sighed, fetching a chair so she could sit with him. “Girl with a bullet lodged in her skull. It wasn’t even a new wound. Only in Gotham.”

Alfred was frowning as she sat down, as if something she’d said had sparked a bad memory.

“Don’t go getting up in arms just yet,” he said, “but I think that’s the young lady who shot me.”

Lee was too weary to even react with surprise. “Former Jeremiah Valeska employee. Ecco?”

“Bloody hell, the world really has shrunk. She struck me as…not quite right. Maybe it needed extracting.”

“It was causing her pain so intense she could hardly speak. Imagine the world’s worst migraine.”

“Guess I might’ve been judging her too harshly, eh,” Alfred said, staring out the window.

Lee folded her hands in her lap and stared at them. “You could’ve just as easily judged me.”

“Sure, you went darkside there for a while—but you came back, didn’t you?” Alfred asked.

The weight of what lay unspoken between them—had for _weeks_ —settled with dread.

“Bruce still might. Once he sees what a madman he’s taken up with, he’ll come to his senses.”

“Can’t help but think it’s been too long. He’s had plenty of chances to see exactly what kind of insanity he’s flirting with. Worse, he’s embraced it.”

“This kind of infatuation never lasts long,” Lee said. “Trust me. I saw through Jim eventually.”

“You weren’t there to see what it was like when those boys first met,” said Alfred. “ _Before_ …” He reached for her hand. “Listen, I’ve been around the block enough times to know. They fell in love. Not even laughing gas or what-have-you is going to change it.”

Lee glanced up at him. “I could go talk to him. After what Jim and Harvey saw, we…we know exactly where he is. Where _they_ are.”

Alfred squeezed her hand, holding tight, steeling his expression. “Don’t. I can’t lose you, too.”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” replied Lee, ribbing him. “I can handle myself out there.”

“Two against one isn’t great odds even for the seasoned,” Alfred cautioned. “Take it from me.”

“Even in his current state, I don’t believe for an instant that Bruce would hurt me,” Lee insisted. “Jeremiah, I’m not so sure about, but Bruce can sway him from the sound of things.”

Alfred’s composure broke; he swallowed a single, strained sob, but the tears were inevitable.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe hearin’ it straight from somebody who’s been there, done that…”

“I’ve done things Bruce hasn’t even dreamed of,” Lee said, persisting in the kind of dry, dire humor that seemed to cheer him. “Never slept with a rival, though. That’s a new one.”

“If you’d take it upon yourself to make a house call,” Alfred said quietly, accepting the tissue Lee drew from her pocket, “then I would be forever in your debt. As if I weren’t already.”

Lee got to her feet and stepped close to him, bending until their foreheads nearly touched.

“You don’t owe me anything, Alfred,” she said with feeling. “You’ve convinced me this hell’s worth crawling out of. You and everyone here.”

“Not dear Jim?” Alfred asked, dabbing at his eyes. “Granted, the two of you have been cold—”

Leslie kissed him before she could regret not having done so. Who knew what she’d find out there, and who knew if she’d really be safe?

“Leslie,” Alfred said, brushing her cheek as they finally drew apart, “if you knew how long…”

“I do,” Leslie said, smiling at the thought of the giddy-in-love girls upstairs. “Took me a while.”

“Send my regards,” Alfred said with resolve. “Do what you need to do. Come back to me safe.”

Getting the rest of the day off wasn’t difficult, not when Lee spent less time at home—not that she currently _had_ any other home—than most of the rest of the staff combined. She shed her lab coat, stethoscope, and other supplies in a locker.

On her way outside, breath seizing at the snow-laced wind, Lee reluctantly dialed the precinct.

“This is Bullock,” said the voice on the end of the line. “Response time’s running slow today.”

“Hey, Harv,” Lee replied, relieved he was the one who answered. “I won’t keep you long. You said the old Stockton line is where that tunnel out to Wayne Manor starts, right?”

“Yeah, that’s where it is,” Harvey said, his tone suggesting he regretted the knee-jerk answer. “If you’ve got it in your head to snoop around, I wouldn’t. Those kids have gone psycho. They threatened to blow the whole mansion to smithereens if Jim and I didn’t get out.”

“Informational purposes only,” Lee lied, rolling her eyes. “Thanks,” she added, hanging up.

She kept her hand on the Ruger in her coat pocket for the entirety of the fifteen-minute walk.

Stockton had been a derelict station for as long as Lee had lived in Gotham. Finding the entrance unboarded and clear was disconcerting, as was the descent down its icy stairs. Past the mosaic and down a narrow connecting passage, the tunnel entrance loomed ahead of her, its lights out.

Feeling her way through the darkness with only a flashlight wasn’t the hard part; she was impressed with the tunnel’s rustic precision. However, finding the fireplace entrance to the library blocked posed an issue. She tapped on the smooth hardwood, realizing that it was a bookcase or similar. Likely not a terribly large one, given that the young men in question, while both strong, were slighter than not.

Before she could put her shoulder into an attempt to shove it over, the barrier was hefted aside.

“If you know we’re here, then I suppose you have business with us,” said Bruce, the only party visible, holding his firearm an inch from Lee’s forehead. “Keep your hands visible as you come inside.”

Jeremiah was over at the desk, pouring two glasses of what smelled like expensive whiskey from a decanter. He carried them to the coffee table and set them down, taking a seat on the left-hand brown leather sofa.

Bruce used the Colt to wave Lee toward the coffee table, his aim at her steady and unrelenting.

Jeremiah tutted, indicating that Lee should have a seat on the opposite sofa. He slid her a drink.

“Love, _do_ take it easy on our illustrious guest. Welcome, deposed Queen of the Narrows.”

Lee raised her eyebrows, gesturing incredulously at the glass. What kind of fool did he think—

“There’s absolutely no call for poison,” Jeremiah said. “If we wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“It's less that I was deposed, more that I quit,” Lee replied, watching Bruce lower his revolver.

“Decided to reclaim your throne?” Bruce asked. “The gangs are directionless. They need you.”

Lee squared her shoulders, tossing back the expensive whiskey. “No, Bruce. Alfred needs me.”

“I don’t appreciate you coming into our home with this agenda,” snapped Bruce, his tone harsh.

Extending an arm in Bruce’s direction, Jeremiah beckoned until Bruce relented and went to him.

“Pardon his fickle temper,” he said, placing a consoling hand on Bruce’s thigh. “Rough week.”

“This was Alfred’s home, too,” Lee continued, undeterred. “You’ve taken it from him. After reunification, where is he supposed to go?”

“The penthouse, which is where he’s been—unless he’s still in the hospital, of course,” Bruce replied, sounding reasonable, if restrained. “I’ll contact my lawyer on the mainland and have it transferred over to his name—and to yours as well, perhaps, Dr. Thompkins?”

Jeremiah ran his thumb across the back of Bruce’s hand, loosening his grasp so Bruce could entwine their fingers. The easy tenderness between them didn’t read as fake, and Bruce didn't appear to be under Tetch’s signature hypnosis, either.

In fact, aside from a fine, cleanly-healed scar across his right cheek, Bruce looked healthy. He was dressed in his usual immaculate black, but more casual due to the fact that he was shoeless.

In crisp shirtsleeves and a paisley waistcoat, Jeremiah was dressed like exactly the kind of young man that Alfred would’ve been proud to see Bruce bring home. And then he opened his mouth.

“Comforting to know Mr. Pennyworth won’t be alone in the world, after all he’s been through.”

Lee drew the .38 on him without thinking twice. “If you don’t shut up, I swear I’ll shoot you.”

Bruce trained his revolver on her again, cocking it. “Put away your weapon, or there’ll be a bullet in your head before you can pull the trigger.”

“Speaking of bullets in heads,” Lee said to Jeremiah, pocketing her gun with a vague sense of disappointment, “I removed one this morning from a young woman who said she knew you. I hope for your sake you aren’t the one who put it there.”

Jeremiah shrugged, entirely unperturbed. “She did it herself. There’s no accounting for the measures most of us took when this city fell into chaos.”

Studying his vein-riddled, paper-white skin and pigment-stripped eyes, Lee felt a flash of pity. Not for the way he looked, not in the least. Bruce had clearly found him attractive before whatever chemical compound had induced the change, and he was nothing if not striking.

“If the two of you would come with me,” Lee said, closing her eyes in case she was about to be shot, “I could talk Jim into clemency. I know it. Mr. Valeska, I’m concerned that your health—”

“None of the tests I ran in the immediate aftermath turned up anything,” Jeremiah interjected, his tone soft, but scathing. “Both the physical and psychological effects, while inflicted against my will, haven’t proved unlivable. _Your_ transformation, on the other hand, was entirely self-determined…and look how well it became you.”

Stunned, Leslie opened her eyes, glancing from Jeremiah to Bruce. “You’re happy like this?”

Bruce uncocked the Colt, but didn’t lower it. “Are you happy with the path _you’ve_ chosen?”

Wisely, Jeremiah didn’t say anything. He squeezed Bruce’s hand, as if to say he had his back.

Nodding to herself, Lee got to her feet with both hands wearily raised. She made her way to the fireplace, keeping her back toward it.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” she said, making eye contact with each of them in turn, “but I hope it’ll be under better circumstances.”

“My hope’s much the same, Dr. Thompkins,” said Jeremiah. “You would be a formidable ally.”

Bruce set his gun down on the coffee table, reaching for the whiskey Jeremiah hadn’t touched.

“I can’t expect Alfred to understand,” he said softly, raising the glass, “but send him my best.”


	12. Half As Beautiful, Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part to bear a title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lElQQE-FkJQ); also, I fleetingly reference a more recent _Batman_ source. Oh, and [I made the pendants](http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/184190457120/those-double-sided-playing-card-pendants-that-get).

In the evenings since New Year’s, Bruce had taken to reading in the library again. As long as he didn’t demand use of the desk while Jeremiah was busy or interfere with Jeremiah’s schematics, the time-share worked.

For the past several days, Jeremiah had commandeered the kitchen table for completion of his soldering and polishing work. Lee’s unsettling visit the day before had disrupted their routine, and they'd quietly respected each other’s need for privacy.

Once Lee had departed, they’d eaten brunch and engaged in subdued conversation. They’d left the dishes where they sat and retired upstairs, at which point the conversation they were avoiding had been deferred yet again in favor of falling into bed.

Bruce hadn’t thought that marathoning without any rest was possible, especially not for _them_ , but by dinnertime it was a miracle that they were even capable of walking back downstairs. They hadn’t been violent, not as such, but they’d left marks in their mutual desperation.

They’d taken each other in every way they had so far deemed possible, and with a few variations besides. Abashedly stiff and aching, they’d been tender with each other that morning, moving against each other beneath the too-heavy covers before finishing off in the shower.

Jeremiah had left Bruce with a kiss on the cheek, saying he’d be in the kitchen if Bruce needed him. They’d crossed paths in the pantry mid-morning, each raiding a different box of Pop-Tarts. Bruce had pinned Jeremiah against the shelves and kissed him breathless.

Rubbing his forehead, Bruce closed the book. He rested his chin against his hands, too irked to concentrate. Intrusions upon their privacy were becoming a troubling norm. He needed to solve the issue as quickly and efficiently as possible.

After several minutes, his brooding was interrupted by Jeremiah. He’d swapped the usual formality of a waistcoat for a blue wool sweater over his collared shirt—and hadn’t bothered with either cosmetics or addressing the fact that his ginger roots had begun to show.

Carrying a mug in each hand, clear-eyed with purposeful concern, he was a welcome arrival.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Bruce said, gratefully accepting the tea Jeremiah handed him.

“We’ve both been working too hard,” Jeremiah said, pushing Bruce’s book aside as he propped himself against the desk. He cradled his mug and sipped it, sighing contentedly. “Mariage Frères.”

“Alfred always felt guilty for preferring their loose-leafs to any English label,” Bruce confided.

“I used to have Ecco keep my kitchen stocked with this one. Earl Grey d’Or. Best anywhere.”

“You probably found it already, but we have the one called Covent Garden Morning, too.”

“I’m not a fan of almond,” said Jeremiah, drinking deep, with a hint of mild disdain Bruce couldn’t help but find charming, “but for you I’d give it a second chance. If you made a pot, I wouldn’t let it go to waste.”

Bruce wanted to say something witty, something romantic, but the intent caught in his throat. He drank about half of his mug in several swallows, hoping to avoid voicing the worst of his thoughts. He wondered if Jeremiah was trying to do the same thing.

Unexpectedly, Jeremiah took the tea out of Bruce’s hands. He set it aside next to his own, and then scooted until he’d insinuated himself directly between Bruce and the desk. He looked very young and very, _very_ tired.

“You’re still thinking about Dr. Thompkins,” Jeremiah said, his tone melancholy, stroking Bruce’s hair. “Did her airing of grievances make you regret what you’ve done?” He framed Bruce’s face, his expression disarmingly candid. “I’d let you walk out that tunnel if it’s what you wanted. If you did, what I’d do with myself is of no great consequence.” As Jeremiah’s eyes briefly shuttered, an anguished and uncharacteristic blink, Bruce knew he was thinking of the detonator upstairs. “Does it cause you more pain than you can stand, being with someone like me?”

“Why would you say that?” Bruce demanded, taking hold of his hands. “I regret that Alfred may never forgive me for the choices I’ve made, but letting that regret change my mind would mean declaring my love for you a mistake. The truth is, it’s anything but. Alfred’s a killer. Selina’s a killer. _I’m_ a killer. There’s hardly a person left in this city who doesn’t have blood on their hands. You’re a killer? So what. I love you.”

“I ought to be more patient,” Jeremiah sighed, the undercurrent of anxiety draining from him, smoothing Bruce’s hair back into order. “I forget that I’m the only party in this fairytale ending who’s gotten everything I want.”

“Don’t go calling it a happy one just yet," Bruce said with reluctance. "It’s reunification that I’m most worried about. Jim will attempt to prosecute anyone who didn’t cooperate with his agenda.”

Jeremiah let go of Bruce’s left hand and fished in his front pocket, withdrawing one of the long silver chains Bruce had fetched him the night before. He slipped it around Bruce’s neck, adjusting what dangled from it with a critical eye. He drew his own pendant from beneath his collar, showing off the finished product with an air of satisfaction.

“What you need to remember is, we hold all the cards,” Jeremiah told him. “Or, if not all the cards, the ones that matter.”

“Metaphorically speaking, yes,” Bruce agreed, examining Jeremiah’s fingers, which were raw-tipped from painstakingly sanding the pendants’ gleaming edges, “but what about in a literal sense? What do we do when they come knocking again with a warrant?”

“With your fortune and my engineering expertise,” Jeremiah said, shivering slightly when Bruce kissed his thumbs, “do you honestly think the arm of the law will even _try_ to reach us when we’re this city’s only hope of swift reconstruction?”

“That’s a compelling argument,” Bruce said, tugging Jeremiah down to sit sideways in his lap. “My company’s stock has suffered, but not as much as other Gotham-based holdings. My lawyers and most of my employees escaped during the evacuation. I’ve maintained contact.”

“I told you,” Jeremiah murmured, winding his arms around Bruce’s neck, “I got everything I hoped for, everything I _dreamed_. Maybe not the way Ra’s was implying, granted. What does a vision matter when you’ve been reduced to cinders? No one believed me when I said it, but I value order. I want this city to reach its full potential. It took me in, sheltered me when I had nothing. It permitted you, tragically orphaned, to thrive.”

“It won’t be the same as it’s been,” Bruce cautioned. “If we proceed the way you’re suggesting, we’ll for all intents and purposes be returning to a life of near-normalcy. I’ll need to do everything I can to keep you safe, which…you’ve gotten used to moving around freely. How can I ask you to hide again? That’s all your life has been, and you spent half a decade of it underground.”

“If I’m destined to resume any significant role within Wayne Enterprises, which I assume I am,” Jeremiah said wryly, “between home and the office, do you think I’d see light of day that often anyway?”

“I’d still feel terrible about the measures we’d need to take. For a while, at least, you’d be a marked man. We both would.”

“I have my work. I have you. I’m a very private person. That’s all the world I could want.”

“You’re more ambitious than you used to be,” Bruce said, toying with Jeremiah’s pendant.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jeremiah countered. “My ambitions have been satisfied. Years of this crucial endeavor lie ahead.”

“You were right,” said Bruce, reflecting with faint wonder. “We’ll rebuild it in our image.”

“ _Your_ image. If you think I’m keeping my mother’s surname as anything other than a middle initial, you’ve got another thing com—”

Bruce kissed him, filled with tenuous hope. “Of course,” he insisted. “As soon as it’s safe.”

“Honeymooning in Paris is a terrible cliché, _but_ —I admit I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“My father used to talk about retiring there,” Bruce replied. “We went when I was a child, and then I visited again several years ago. Could you stand to leave Gotham in the end?”

“If we live to see the day,” Jeremiah admitted, stroking along Bruce’s jaw, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said resolutely. “We have our work cut out for us at any number of levels, and I think…maybe there’s one project we can start.” He brushed Jeremiah’s cheek, grateful the bruise had faded. “If Harvey and Jim hadn’t found you, if Crane and Tetch hadn’t interfered—tell me _exactly_ what you were going to do with Jerome.”

Jeremiah shrugged. “Let him weaken to the point he couldn’t fight back. Bullet in the back of his head, clean and to the point. Arkham proved time and again it couldn’t hold him. He was a blight upon this city. He killed our mother.”

“Satisfying to hear, even after the fact,” Bruce said. “You would’ve been right. We’ve decided death isn’t the best way to make Jim and Harvey pay, so let’s table them for now. But what about—” he paused, closing his fists around their matching, double-sided pendants for emphasis “—Hatter and Scarecrow? They inconvenienced you.”

“Petty annoyances, both,” Jeremiah agreed, catching Bruce’s gist, “but capable of causing more trouble than they’re worth.” He swept Bruce’s hat off the corner of the desk and set it on Bruce’s head. “For Gotham’s sake, they need to go.”

Bruce kissed him. “Joker and Jack will take care of the pieces that our public faces can’t.”


	13. Failsafe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last 2k-ish installment before the final 10k-ish story that will be #14. Thanks for reading so far!

Selina had more than demonstrated her knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. From that long-ago fire escape in Park Row to her recent debris-strewn vantage point above Jeremiah’s tunnel project, she was basically fucked.

So when an explosion rattled everything in her current several-block radius, what did she do on sheer, dogged instinct? Run toward it instead of away, her lungs burning. As if the smoke and sound of crumbling brick weren’t enough, gunfire abruptly joined in.

Taking cover in the nick of time, Selina gasped as the fifth or sixth consecutive bullet whizzed past her head. She popped up during a lull, peering further down the street. There had to be at least two shooters, maybe three.

She saw Victor Zsasz let off another impressive volley before one of the bullets from an as-yet unseen source struck him in the neck. He groaned and staggered backward, falling against what was left of the low brick wall around a parking area.

Selina raced to Zsasz. She caught him under the arms, getting blood everywhere. No more bullets flew as she hauled him behind the wall for cover.

“The _hell_ are you trying to do?” Zsasz demanded, clapping one hand over his gushing wound.

“Save your dumb ass,” Selina seethed, holding him still while she listened. “Think they ran out.”

“Kid, you don’t wanna go out there,” Zsasz coughed. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“Some loser just bombed the snot out of Hatman and Scarecreep,” Selina retorted. “I think I do.”

She got to her feet and vaulted the brick wall, keeping low as she dashed across the street.

All that gunfire had been coming from the fire escapes above the alley, because of course it had.

“If you don’t show your faces,” Selina said, snapping her whip, “I’m gonna chase you. I know you’re out of bullets, because I’m still standing.”

Two figures dropped, one more graceful than the other: Bruce to her left, Jeremiah to her right.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Selina blurted, taking several reflexive steps backward.

Jeremiah pocketed his empty pistol and put both hands in the air. He approached, perhaps emboldened by the fact that Bruce, wearing a black bandanna over the lower half of his face in addition to the fedora and red gloves, wasn’t far behind.

“Selina,” Jeremiah greeted, his demeanor as cool as ever. “So good to see you looking well. No hard feelings at this point, I hope? We’re even.”

Bruce only nodded at her, but he at least had enough sense to pull down the silly-ass bandanna.

“Sure,” Selina said to Jeremiah. “Bygones.” She gestured at Bruce, raising her eyebrows. “I’m surprised you kept this one around. He’s kind of a cold fish, know what I mean?”

Bruce’s swift glance at Jeremiah was met with an answering one so fond Selina wanted to vomit.

“I haven’t had any complaints about our bedroom activities,” Jeremiah said, the fucking prude, “ _but_ —bold of you to assume this is one-sided.”

“Oh, that’s not it,” Selina clarified, smirking at him. “Bruce couldn’t kiss his way out of a paper bag, let alone screw his way out of one.”

That gave Bruce enough time to reload and raise his Colt, an impractical weapon in anyone else’s hands. The Sirens hadn’t favored revolvers.

“Not that you ever had the chance to test the latter theory,” Jeremiah reminded her prissily.

Bruce cocked his weapon, irritated. “Not that our relationship’s any of your business, either.”

“I’m only gonna ask this once,” Selina said, whip at the ready. “What happened over there?”

“If you try to disarm one of us,” Bruce said, “the other will shoot. Consider that fair warning.”

“Tetch and Crane wanted a modest explosive device,” said Jeremiah, producing a second firearm from his sleeve so suddenly that Selina nearly jumped. “We gave them one in exchange for equally modest information. Not my fault they didn’t follow the instructions.”

“Any time there’s an explosion, chances are high you built the device,” Selina said. “Why wail on Zsasz? He’s probably just doing his job.”

“It would have been difficult for Tetch to hire him,” Bruce pointed out. “They didn’t have the type of resources Zsasz requires as payment.”

“Guess I shouldn’t be too shocked you sabotaged them,” Selina said. “The submarine modification you gave Nygma didn’t work, either.”

“Failure in that case would be down to the party attempting assembly,” Jeremiah replied. “I assure you that my desire was to get them gone.”

“That explains why you’re still here,” Bruce said. “I thought you were set on leaving Gotham.”

Selina stepped back and took a moment to consider them. Their visual effect was mostly on-point; she couldn’t fault them for flair. With a pang of regret, she thought of what she and Bridgit must have looked like working side-by-side. _Could_ have looked like.

For all Selina knew, Jeremiah’s back-up gun was some kind of detonator for more explosives he had strapped under his coat. She remembered the word that had gotten around from when Jim and Harvey went to question them. Willing to go down together.

“Can we call this a day and move on?” Selina asked. “Sorry I talked shit about your sex life.”

Jeremiah’s expression suggested courtesy might be the way forward. “Apology acknowledged.”

“We can’t let you take Zsasz,” Bruce insisted, ever the stuffy hard-ass. “I need to question him.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Zsasz yelled tersely, and Selina wondered how long he’d been listening. “I was trading for juicy deets, too! They wanted a border patrol while reunification’s being negotiated! Thanks to you guys, I’m out of a job!” He groaned. “Hey, uh, Cat? I think I’m bleeding out!”

“Let me get him to the hospital,” Selina hissed, staring Bruce down. “You know—to Lee?”

“I suppose we ought to let the city’s last, best doctor attend to the city’s last, best hit-man,” Jeremiah said to Bruce, but he didn’t lower his Derringer. “Both are useful.”

“Fine,” Bruce replied, holding his aim just as unwaveringly. “But I’m still suspicious. It would be just like Oswald to make it look like his hit was taken out by someone else.”

“Dude, what part of _I’m dying here_ don’t you understand?” Zsasz shrieked incredulously. “I have no reason to lie about who hired me! That’s not how I work, like, ever!”

“You’re free to go!” Jeremiah called back, and then looked to Bruce. “If you’re right, my love,” he continued, “then the truth will out. And we’ll act.”

Selina didn’t bother to thank them. She turned on her heel, crossed the street, and sprang over the rubble behind which she’d stashed Zsasz. He’d lost a lot of blood, so he looked ghastly.

“You’re gonna hate me for this, but I’ve gotta call the precinct,” she said. “They have vehicles.”

“Nah, me and Jim are good,” Zsasz said shakily, closing his eyes. “There’s no way I can walk.”

Cell phone in hand, already dialing, Selina rose and peered around the jagged edge of the wall.

It was as if Bruce and Jeremiah had never been there, nothing but an empty alley and smoldering debris for a couple of square blocks. Spooky.

“This is Bullock,” said the voice on the end of the line. “Selina? Jim recognizes your number.”

“I need you pick up me and Zsasz on what used to be the border between Firefly’s territory and Tetch’s,” she said. “Zsasz is hurt pretty bad.”

“Used to be?” Harvey echoed, sounding as stunned as Selina felt. “D’you wanna unpack that?”

“Tetch and Crane are dead,” Selina answered. “Everything of theirs is gone. All bombed out.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Harvey muttered. “Okay, hang tight. I’m gonna send Harper and Fox over.”

Selina hung up and fixed Zsasz with a pointed look. Wounded or not, his presence was fishy.

“Wanna tell me what you were _really_ doing out here?” she asked. “Out of character.”

“Your ex-boyfriend’s a smart cookie,” Zsasz sighed. “Penguin suspected he and the new flame would start to pick off the low-level competition. Street clean-up, if you will. So, he hired me to snoop around…Tetch and Crane, the Narrows, _et cetera_ …until Joker and Jack turned up again. My orders were to take out only the wild-card, though.”

“Why let Bruce live?” Selina asked, puzzled. “He’s done nothing but prove he’s a douche.”

“Because, uh, out there in the real world? Wayne Enterprises has been ticking right along.”

Selina sat down beside him on the gritty concrete, realizing they had nothing to do but wait.

“Bruce has stayed in contact, I betcha. Giving orders from here in the wasteland. Clever.”

Zsasz gave her a wan, strained smile. “They’re gonna make LexCorp look like amateurs.”

Rubbing her forehead, Selina stared at the vivid splash of Zsasz’s blood on the ground.

Everything was starting to make terrible sense. Two playing fields, two sets of faces.

“Somebody’s gonna have to keep these assholes in line,” she said. “Might as well be me.”


	14. Dark Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the final long story of this sequence as promised. Got it done ahead of my target date, so enjoy!

Being alone onstage with Jerome wasn’t much different than being onstage without him, in the sense that, when their mother asked Jeremiah to go out and do impressions for her tiny audience so she could finish dressing, Jerome was always one that Jeremiah did.

Of course, Jeremiah would cycle through the usuals—Paul Cicero, Uncle Zach, the Ringmaster, any number of Graysons, even Lila—but never once speak as himself. Jerome was the encore, the crowd-pleaser, because it was at that point Jeremiah would beckon for Jerome to join him from behind the curtain and show the audience what an uncanny imitation he’d done.

Always the quiet one, the polite one. Shy, withdrawn artist with an unexpected stage talent.

Once, Jerome caught Jeremiah using their mother’s make-up and threatened to tattle unless Jeremiah helped him with an experiment. Jeremiah could’ve told him without holding down a stray tabby while Jerome stabbed its neck that what would happen was: a dead cat.

Right now, Jeremiah was standing in the too-harsh spotlight without an audience. It was a larger stage than the rickety one they’d make of the back of their mother’s wagon, more like the one on which Jerome had subjected him to humiliation while Bruce looked on—

“Well  _well_ , just look at you,” said Jerome, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his dove-grey tailcoat as he strode out from where he’d been waiting in the wings. “Still livin’ the dream while I’m rotting in my grave.” He stepped up close enough to yank Jeremiah’s collar open and study the silver chain. “BFF necklaces and everything, must be _serious_.” The next tug tore Jeremiah’s top button off, and Jerome’s expression shifted to thinly-veiled rage when he spotted several marks Bruce had left. “So, tell me—did you slather him in honey first, or did he slather you?”

“Neither honey, nor beetles were involved, and it was—” Jeremiah sneered at him “—mutual.”

“His... _grant_ , if that’s what the kids are calling it these days...must’ve been huge,” Jerome said with a wink, setting Jeremiah’s collar half-assedly back to rights. “To get a cold fish like you to finally give it up, I mean...” He gestured critically at Jeremiah’s ensemble.

Jeremiah slapped Jerome’s hands away, indignant. “I didn’t sleep with him back then, not before—”

Jerome unpocketed the balisong that Jeremiah had lost to the vat in Ace Chemicals. He flicked it open, no frills, and held it up to Jeremiah’s throat.

“If there’s anything I hate,” Jerome seethed, low and threatening, “you know it’s a lying whore. That’s why I killed Mom. You’re just like her.”

Determined not to lose his composure, Jeremiah pressed forward, just shy of the blade biting in. He thought of Bruce that night, his fearless Jack.

“I should’ve had Ecco shoot you as soon as you were in that cage,” he said coolly. “No, better yet—Mom should’ve drowned you like a sack of—”

“Wait wait  _wait_ ,” Jerome said, his eyes widening as he lowered the knife. “D’you mean to tell me darling Bruce didn’t fuck you until you looked like this—” he gestured from Jerome’s throat down to his toes with the blade “—and lost your _brilliant_ mind? That’s comforting. If I’d lived, maybe I would’ve stood a chance. I mean, what kind of a pretty rich boy turns up his nose at a girl who had the moxie to gut you like— _hah_ , see, now we’re back at the fish metaphor. Not bad for a guy who didn’t go to your fancy grammar school, huh?”

“Bruce started to fall for me before this happened,” Jeremiah said, feeling his anger rise, “before _you_ did this to me. _We_ fell in love before—”

“Long story short,” Jerome scoffed, “you’re telling me he can look past this pasty fashion disaster and see the old you, the  _real_  you? Oh, have I got news. There’s no such thing. What you see is what you get.” He took a bow. “Plot twist! Turns out he was a monster in search of another monster, and I just didn’t shed the right skin. But, surprise surprise. You _did_.”

“You didn’t make me lose myself,” Jeremiah said spitefully. “No matter how many times you tell yourself that’s how it went, it’ll never be true.”

“Nah, but _he_ made you lose it,” replied Jerome, almost sadly. “Made you give it all up with your hands tied and your scars exposed. Bruised your face and bit your lip until you were gagging for it. How many times did he make you—” He jammed the blade into the left side of Jeremiah’s neck without warning, leaning close to kiss the shell of Jeremiah’s ear. “This is how I died the first time, FYI.”

Jeremiah woke with scarcely enough air in his lungs to properly scream. He kicked off the covers and rolled onto his side, wheezing.

Bruce’s hand on his arm was grounding, an instant comfort. “Breathe. You were dreaming.”

Nodding miserably, Jeremiah let his forehead drop to the pillow. “So I’ve begun to gather.”

"Sometimes you talk in your sleep,” Bruce said, kissing Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Nothing coherent.”

"That’s probably for the best,” replied Jeremiah, feeling his chest tighten again. "Mostly nightmares.”

"I wish I could change that,” Bruce said earnestly, "but I imagine I might have contributed to them.”

“Can you clarify,” Jeremiah panted, “what was going through your head in the mirror-maze I made in the warehouse, when you almost called me…”

Bruce made a pained sound at the back of his throat, tugging at Jeremiah more insistently.

“I regret it.  I wasn’t thinking clearly, because it…it felt too good.  What you were doing.”

“I know it did,” Jeremiah said, struggling for breath, reaching back to stroke Bruce’s hip. “Why else do you think I blow you every chance I get?”

“Wait,” Bruce said, catching his hand. “Your pulse is faster than it should be.  I’m worried—”

“Take my mind off this,” Jeremiah pleaded. “You know you’re the only one who can do that.”

After briefly hesitating, Bruce pulled Jeremiah tighter against himself, coaxing him to settle.

“Lie back,” Bruce whispered, softly kissing his neck, rucking his flannel top. “Let me try…”

Jeremiah turned his head, gasping.  Bruce’s hand slipping inside his pajamas was almost scandalous; they’d been careful, with the exception of what they’d done during their spat and then in the library the night Bruce came home, to get clothing out of the way. 

This felt like decadence, like a long-buried secret.  Like something even Jerome couldn’t reach.

“You’re not hard,” Bruce murmured, trailing kisses up to Jeremiah’s ear.  “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Keep that up,” Jeremiah said, savoring the warmth of Bruce’s chest against his back. “I will be.”

“Okay,” Bruce replied, more than half-hard himself as he felt Jeremiah’s cock twitch in his hand.

Ten minutes later, Jeremiah came—moaning into the pillow, clutching Bruce’s arm at his waist.

“You’re so responsive,” Bruce huffed against Jeremiah’s neck, rutting harder when Jeremiah slid his hand around to clutch at the back of Bruce’s thigh. “I remember that day, after I found—after the theater.  When I had you pinned to—to the wall that second time, I—”

“You got me off,” Jeremiah admitted, hazy with pleasure, drawing Bruce’s knee up and over his hip, massaging the soft skin behind it. “Afterward, I was sorry I chased you away.  Didn’t get to make you feel as good as—”

“Shit,” Bruce said, clutching Jeremiah's wrist as he began to shake.  “Jeremiah, sorry I— _shit_.”

Jeremiah closed his eyes, stroking Bruce’s trembling thigh, careful not to dislodge Bruce’s hand.

“We weren’t in our right minds, if there’s any such thing. So good for me. _Shhh_ , dear heart.”

 _Maybe I was wrong about who’s the whore_ , Jerome hissed, muffled by unquiet earth.  _He sure is a screamer when he wants to be._

“Just like before," Bruce panted, clinging sweetly in the aftermath.  “No, you’re— _we’re_ better.”

Twisting around in Bruce’s embrace, Jeremiah kissed him.  _Shove it where the sun don’t shine._

 _Already there_ , Jerome chuckled, finally subsiding.  _You’ll have to try much harder than that._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Weather kept them indoors for two weeks straight, a blizzard that left their ruin of a city shrouded in snow. According to Barbara’s latest intel, it had delayed the helicoptering of ground troops intended to administer humanitarian aid and to pave the way for reunification.

Jeremiah left the soup to simmer and carried his phone over to Bruce at the kitchen table.

“Today’s February second,” Bruce said pensively, staring at the text. “That means the troops were due around January twentieth. I remember because the storm hit the day you woke up—”

“We have enough food for two more months if we don’t overdo it,” Jeremiah said, taking back the phone, slipping it in his apron pocket. “Can’t say I like the lack of…secondary necessities,” he said, self-consciously running his fingers through his hair.

Ever-increasing copper roots had led to Jeremiah asking, in the absence of any spare dark-green dye, that Bruce use the remainder of the red to even it out. He’d glanced in the mirror immediately afterward and had avoided doing so again for the past week.

“It’s not jarring,” Bruce said. “With your hair like this and no make-up, your eyes stand out even more.” He caught Jeremiah’s hand. “I don’t mind.”

 _He wouldn’t, would he?_ Jerome retorted, back like a bad penny. _Pop on those glasses and—_

“Might pass for a case of oculocutaneous albinism,” Jeremiah said, ignoring him. “If need be, when…”

“I don’t want you to have to _pass_ for anything,” Bruce insisted. “Take it one day at a time.”

“Our lunch is going to burn if I don’t serve it now,” replied Jeremiah, taking back his hand.

“Sit down,” Bruce said, rising, and untied the apron so it fell from him. “I’ll get it ready.”

Jeremiah leaned into Bruce’s kiss, vastly reassured, just as Jerome decided he wasn’t done.

_See, Brucie’s the one passing for something, and he knows it. D’you honestly think he’ll stay with you like this when life’s all hunky-dory again, once Gotham’s back to normal?_

“Yes,” Jeremiah muttered against Bruce’s lips, which got him an odd look. “Yes, I’ll sit down.”

“I was thinking,” Bruce said, clattering around behind Jeremiah with bowls and silverware, “that maybe we could bundle up and go scavenging after we eat. See if we can find a costume shop.”

 _His kingdom for a Hot Topic_ , Jerome deadpanned. _Isn’t that sweet? That’s really—_

“Sweet,” Jeremiah said, rubbing his temples as he stared down at the placemat, “of you. Really.”

Bruce returned to the table with two steaming bowls in hand, gaze questioning as he sat down.

“Headache?” he asked, scooting Jeremiah his soup. “Are the lights too bright in here again?”

Jeremiah nodded, taking a spoonful. He didn’t bother to blow on it, hoping the tongue-scorch would clear his mind. There was no call for intrusive thoughts after a fortnight of silence.

 _Doesn’t that just remind you of good old Uncle Zach?_ Jerome wheedled, taunting him.

Bringing his fist down on the table went quite a way toward enduring the sting down his throat.

Bruce covered Jeremiah’s hand with his own, gentling it. “You should’ve waited. Way too hot.”

“I’ll head upstairs when we’re done and get presentable,” Jeremiah replied, forcing a smile. “We could use the fresh air and some exercise that won’t…wear out the mattress.”

The way Bruce’s fathomless eyes crinkled when he smiled back subdued Jeremiah’s disquiet.

Scarves and heavy wool coats, an entire dizzying array of them, were easy to dig out of storage and model until each had found one the other declared acceptable. Jeremiah chose charcoal, and Bruce chose black.

What wasn’t as easily accomplished was a pair of boots for Jeremiah, at least not until they discovered—after deeming Bruce’s spares too small and Thomas’s remainders too large—that Alfred’s old shearling-lined work boots fit perfectly. Jeremiah laced them without comment.

The world beyond their frigid tunnel and the echoing silence of Stockton station was a record in blinding, seldom-marred white. The scarcity of tracks through the snow spoke of great difficulty traversing the city; patches of frozen blood here and there suggested increased conflict.

“It’s the gangs,” Bruce said, sticking close by Jeremiah’s side as they trudged from a near-intractable side street and into the flawlessly-cleared western edge of the Sirens’ territory.

“Out of the Narrows, into the woods,” said Jeremiah. “Maybe they’ve driven each other extinct.”

Abruptly, Bruce halted. “Hold on,” he cautioned, drawing the Colt. “I hear something.”

Jeremiah stopped in his tracks. He became aware that, now the crunch of their steps was gone, something was indeed carrying over a short distance: the sound of voices raised in unrest.

“It’s coming from the direction of Penguin’s territory,” he said, “and nobody is surprised.”

Bruce nodded, reflexively grabbing Jeremiah’s hand as automatic gunfire joined the mix.

“That can’t be right, it’s…” He nonetheless started to tow Jeremiah back in the direction from which they’d come, something in his carriage suggesting panic. “Those are military-issue.”

“Then the cavalry’s arrived,” Jeremiah said, picking up his pace. “We should steer clear of—”

“Get down!” Bruce hissed, dragging them across the street until he could shove Jeremiah between a massive snowdrift and a derelict delivery truck.

The whistle of bullets overhead heralded the fray, kept them frozen and clutching at each other in dismay as the street erupted into chaos. Unrest, the nearer it drew, became crossfire interspersed with screaming and shouting that Jeremiah found excruciating to parse.

“Penguin’s soldiers,” Bruce whispered, able to differentiate one kind of gunfire from another. “They’re clashing with the troops, which…” He curled tighter around Jeremiah as a volley hit the opposite side of the truck and shook it. “That doesn’t make sense. He’d want to cooperate.”

“Unless they stormed his fortress without asking whose it was,” Jeremiah muttered. “Either that, or a siege was already underway, and they joined in without differentiating friend from foe.”

They spent the next several seconds unfolding themselves and crawling under the truck as the action intensified. It took another fifteen minutes beyond that for the chaos to move on.

“That’s not the only pocket,” Bruce said, struggling out of hiding, and then helped Jeremiah emerge, too. “There’s something else going on to the south. We need to get back to Stockton as fast as we can. Fortunately, we didn’t get far.”

After retracing their meandering steps back several blocks, the Stockton entrance was in sight.

“Whatever’s coming,” Jeremiah said, taking his turn to haul Bruce even faster than they’d already been going, “it’s getting closer. I hear engines.”

“Borrowed from the precinct,” Bruce muttered as they braced each other on their perilous way down the subway stairs. “Airlifting Jeeps would be…”

Bruce’s words died in his throat as the sound of approaching vehicles at street-level ground to a halt. Finally clear of the stairs, they ran the sequence of turns leading to the tunnel entrance as fast as their feet could carry them. An agitation of voices echoed eerily behind them.

“We’ve been followed,” Jeremiah said darkly, fumbling the flashlight from his pocket as they made their way into damp, familiar darkness. “Or they were ordered here to begin with.”

Bruce kept his revolver trained behind them to the best of his ability as they forged on, while Jeremiah looked ahead. The endearingly dour set of Bruce’s features suggested that he suspected the latter.

Jeremiah didn’t notice that voices had begun to echo down the tunnel until a split-second before the blast. He dropped the flashlight and shoved Bruce against the quaking tunnel wall, shielding him, wondering in a numb, abstract fashion if they would be buried alive.

When the ceiling didn’t collapse on their heads and the susurrus of knocked-loose soil settled, Jeremiah stepped away from Bruce. He retrieved the flashlight with a sense of fascinated dread, taking swift strides back toward the entrance.

Bruce dashed to catch up with him, breathing heavily, in shock. “Please don’t tell me that’s…”

“What you think it is, yes,” Jeremiah said grimly, sweeping the flashlight over the jagged wall that now entirely blocked the tunnel’s entrance.

“That,” Bruce raged at the bombers, who definitely couldn’t hear them through a quarter-mile of debris, “was unfathomably stupid!”

“I’d say so,” Jeremiah agreed, realization slowly dawning. “The Palisades, it’s effectively…”

“An island in its own right,” Bruce finished for him. “Without the smaller connecting bridges, we’re…never mind, you know this. It’s why you had to dig a tunnel in the first place. They’ve cut us off.”

“Until they get a ferry running,” Jeremiah said, “we _are_ stranded. Less than ideal.”

“Jim’s doing,” Bruce said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned toward home. “His way of ensuring we can’t cause trouble while they sort the rest of the city. He’ll deal with us last.”

Jeremiah took a final look at the cave-in and dashed to catch up with Bruce. He slid his arm through Bruce’s and slowed their pace. If this was the beginning of the end, he intended to enjoy it until they drew their last breaths.

In the silence, from the stretch ahead, voices wittered fearfully beyond the flashlight’s reach.

“That’s not possible,” Jeremiah murmured, sweeping the beam as far ahead as he could as Bruce cocked his Colt in readiness. “I recognize…”

The figures they found huddled against the hearth’s masonry wore heavy winter coats. The two flanking were considerably shabbier than the slight, sharply-dressed one in the middle.

“I can explain!” Ivy shrieked, flinging her hands in the air as Bruce pointed his gun at her.

“Good, because I sure can’t,” Ecco muttered, sliding an arm around the middle figure. “You okay, sweetie? Just nod or shake your head, it’s fine. They only _look_ scary.”

Jeremiah nudged Bruce carefully aside and approached the dark-haired, round-eyed boy. He stood just shy of Ecco’s five feet, four inches, and didn’t look afraid so much as apprehensively excited. He signed something with swift, precise hands as Ecco brushed back his wavy hair.

“I’m giving you a minute to explain,” Bruce said to Ivy, “so you had better start talking.”

“Sheesh,” Ivy said. “Fine. We got stuck in the crossfire. Not a great day to ask Pengy for a favor. We didn’t even get inside, not with everyone rushing _out_. We found him—” Ivy jerked her thumb at the boy “—tryin’ his best not to get shot a couple blocks from here, so we brought him along. This tunnel was the safest place we knew, so don’t give me that bitchface.”

Jeremiah was listening, but he hadn’t once dragged his eyes from the boy’s unnervingly familiar features. A clip of news footage from nearly two years ago flickered at the back of his mind.

“Isn’t this a conundrum,” Jeremiah sighed, glancing at Bruce, and then back at Ecco. He pulled the first firearm he could find from inside his coat. “Do you even realize you’ve taken Oswald Cobblepot’s adopted son hostage? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Sanctuary,” Ecco replied defiantly, advancing until the Derringer’s barrel was against her chest. “This may not be your church, but it’s close.”

Bruce lowered his revolver with a heaviness that signaled the depth of his fatigue. “Granted.”

Re-pocketing his Derringer, Jeremiah raised the flashlight again and nodded at the hearth.

“You’ll need to move so we can get us inside,” he said, handing the flashlight to the boy. “What’s your name? Spell it out. I might remember—”

“Mar—Mar _tín_ ,” the boy rasped, and then signed it several times in emphatic succession.

Jeremiah watched Ecco use the ASL alphabet to respond with _Hi, Marteen_ , which made the boy giggle. Next, she spelled _Ivy_ , _Bruce_ , and _Jeremiah_.

 _Valeska?_ Martín signed, his eyes going impossibly wider. _This is so cool!_

“You’re a curious child, aren’t you?” Jeremiah said, guiding Martín to aim the flashlight beam where it was needed so he and Bruce could let them inside. “Make yourself useful.”

Once they filed into the library, Martín cast wildly about the room. When he spotted the desk, he raced to it and grabbed Bruce’s pen and notebook.

 _Easier_ , he wrote, holding it up for all to see, and then, _You must have questions._

“Yeah,” Ivy said, flopping down beside Ecco on the sofa while Jeremiah and Bruce maneuvered the bookcase back into place. “I wanna know what the hell you were doing outside.”

“Much though it pains me to say it, we’re going to have to notify your father,” Jeremiah said.

 _Fathers_ , Martín wrote vehemently, and then, _NO. They’re fighting, so I left._

“You used the chaos as a chance to run away?” Bruce asked, tellingly close to amused.

“Oh my flippin’ God,” Ecco lamented, hiding her face in her hands. “We’re so screwed.”

“I knew you existed, but I only ever saw your baby-face on Channel Five,” Ivy marveled. “Didn’t recognize ya. Pengy swore up, down, and sideways that you got evacuated.”

 _He lied to protect me_ , Martín replied, flipping to a clean page. _Like you protected me._

“Yeah,” Ecco agreed angrily, uncovering her eyes, “because you’re, like, what, ten years old?”

 _Twelve_ , Martín wrote defensively. _Please don’t tell them where I am. Not yet._

Jeremiah stared at Bruce, too weary and full of consternation to make any firm decisions.

“There are plenty of spare rooms,” Bruce said to their guests. “Let me show you upstairs.”

While Ivy and Martín trailed enthusiastically after Bruce, Ecco rose from the sofa and approached Jeremiah. She drew her Ladysmith with obvious intent and shoved it up under his jaw.

“Lay a finger on the kid for any reason, and I promise I’ll put a bullet in _your_ head.”

Jeremiah put his hands up. “Ecco, what earthly reason do you think I would have to harm a child who’s worth _far_ more to me alive than dead?”

“Not you I’m worried about anymore,” Ecco said, shoving the barrel up harder. “Think.” She sniffed and shifted her stance. “Stop callin’ me that. I’m Harley, or did you forget?”

“Ah,” Jeremiah replied. “Bruce’s bad cop to my good cop, is that it? My failure to appeal to his better angels, let alone him to mine? Put down the gun. Ms. Eccles, I—” he closed his eyes “—regret what I asked of you. Your loyalty was more than I deserved.”

“Damn right it was,” Harley said, cocking the gun. “You deserve a taste of your own medicine.”

 _For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me you’re gonna apologize,_ Jerome griped. _Disarm her and shoot._

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you,” said Jeremiah, suddenly exhausted, giving the unbidden voice his best mental approximation of the finger, “and for what you did to yourself in my name.”

Harley uncocked the gun and lowered it. She stepped back from him, squinting in faint dismay.

“Mr. Goody Two-Boots rubbin’ off on ya after all?” she asked. “Wait, no. Don’t answer that.”

Jeremiah fixed her with a sarcastic, reproachful glower. “If I did, would it make you go away?”

“Yeah, but I dunno where I’m going,” said Harley, with mock-ignorance, “in this big old house.”

Jeremiah took the Ladysmith out of her hand and put it on the coffee table. He beckoned curtly.

“Follow me,” he said, leading her into the hall, “and no complaining about room assignments.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nearly a week passed without incident. Ecco— _Harley_ , Jeremiah reminded himself, to a chorus of cracked laughter from Jerome—knowing the house, right down to the kitchen gadgets, meant that she kept herself, Ivy, and the boy on an independent schedule.

In spite of how relatively affable he’d been in permitting them to stay, Bruce was quieter and moodier than usual. Not unexpected, given that the estate was more populated than it had ever been in Bruce’s lifetime. Reminders hurt, and Jeremiah had spent any amount of time regretting how he’d approached their courtship. It felt excessive now. _Laughable_.

Books vanished from the library shelves in twos and threes, and Jeremiah found them in stacks on the desk in Bruce’s childhood bedroom during the hours when Harley and Ivy took Martín on walks around the grounds. They’d given him Bruce’s old quarters and clothes.

Between bedroom, kitchen, and library, Jeremiah kept Bruce as occupied as he could manage.

“We’ll need to do something about this,” Bruce finally said, drowsily, on the sixth morning. “At the present rate, we’ll run out of food twice as fast.”

 _Step right up, Lady of the Manor!_ Jerome interjected, startling Jeremiah into full wakefulness. _Time to agree with whatever your liege-lord says!_

Jeremiah kissed the warm skin of Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s scent, sweat and sleep, grounded him.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he replied calmly. “We’re in a better position than we realize.”

Bruce kissed him on the mouth before responding, a leisurely and apologetic good-morning.

“How’s that? I can’t think of any good way to inform Oswald. They all end with us dead.”

“You’re right,” Jeremiah agreed. “There’s no good way, _but_ —there’s a non-fatal one.”

Bruce shifted onto his back as Jeremiah rolled over, cradling Jeremiah’s head against his chest.

“I’m listening,” he said, and the reminder of what weight that phrase carried was an anchor.

“When we let them know the boy’s alive thanks to being stranded out here with his unlikely saviors,” Jeremiah said, “we emphasize our motivations in sheltering them as pragmatic. We want reunification to succeed, and we’re _sure_ the tunnel collapse was an unintended consequence of a necessary operation. We tell them they’ll get the boy back alive as long as they reconnect us with the city and refrain from legal action.”

“Oswald will take that deal in a heartbeat,” Bruce said thoughtfully, “but I don’t know about Jim. He might. We need to hope the government’s letting him continue to lead the initiative on the ground here. Otherwise, they’ll fly in, rescue Martín, and kill us all.”

“Not if we kill us all first,” Jeremiah pointed out, nodding at the detonator on the nightstand.

Bruce frowned at Jeremiah now that he’d lifted his head from Bruce’s chest, mildly irritated.

“I’d agree to that if it was just us and the girls,” he said, “but I would prefer not to kill a child.”

 _Age of the target never stopped me trying_ , Jerome said. _Why should it stop you?_

“I’d prefer not to kill him, either,” Jeremiah conceded, closing his eyes tightly on a surge of frustration, “or, indeed, any parties present. However, there’s that slim chance.”

Bruce rubbed Jeremiah’s temples for him until he opened his eyes. “I’m being optimistic.”

“Pretty novel coming from you, sunshine,” Jeremiah said, pecking his cheek. “Breakfast?”

“I could eat,” said Bruce, watching Jeremiah get out of bed. “Are you sure they’re out of the kitchen?” he asked, glancing at the bedside clock. “I don’t want to interfere.”

“Stay put,” Jeremiah said, fetching his plaid robe from the side-chair. “I’ll bring something up.”

The kitchen appeared to be empty until Jeremiah reached the doorway, in which he paused warily.

Martín—seated alone at the table with a book, a plate of Pop-Tarts, and a mug—waved at him.

Jeremiah approached the table with hesitation. He hadn’t been around children much since _he_ was a child at St. Ignatius; many of his classmates had been petty to a cruel degree. As a rule, he didn’t trust children much even now.

“Good morning,” he said, uncertain of how to proceed. “Where are your chaperones?”

Martín scribbled on the notepad next to his plate and held it up. _They are sleeping in._

 _Banging in your guest room_ , Jerome translated. _Hope you didn’t like those sheets._

Clearing his throat, Jeremiah crossed to the counter. The French press was half-full and still hot.

“You drink coffee?” he asked, pouring himself the remainder out of curiosity. “You made this?”

Martín nodded cheerfully, scribbling something as Jeremiah came over to stand beside him.

 _Are you and Bruce married like my fathers?_ He tapped the paper, passing the sugar bowl.

“Not yet,” Jeremiah said, impressed with the boy’s manners. “I suppose that we’d like to be.”

 _You found someone even though you’re different_ , Martín wrote. _Maybe I’ll find someone._

Jeremiah considered that sentiment as he stirred sugar into his coffee. It was all too familiar.

“I’d say your fathers are both _plenty_ different, and they found each other, didn’t they?”

_Ed didn’t want to be called any version of dad even though he’s my dad. Complicated._

Heaven knew why Jeremiah felt inclined to open up to their hostage, but it might prove useful.

“My biological father didn’t want to be called dad, either. My parents weren’t married. I knew he was my father, but my brother didn’t. Mom didn’t trust what he would do if he found out.”

 _Like it made any difference to her whether he lived or died after she was done screwing him_ , Jerome said. _You’ve gotta work on these hang-ups._

 _Your brother died, didn’t he?_ Martín asked. _I saw the news coverage on TV. I’m sorry._

“No huge loss,” Jeremiah said. “He tried to kill me once when we were children. It’s why I left.”

 _At least you’re finally being honest about how many times it was_ , Jerome retorted. _Prissy liar._

Martín proceeded to write an entire essay, which he handed off to Jeremiah while he munched on what was left of his Pop-Tarts. He’d eaten the middles out of them first, having quite clearly elevated pastry evisceration to an art form.

_I remember my birth mother, but I never met my father. Some no-good white dude. That’s what my mother called him. She was very pretty and very, very depressed. She got in trouble a lot. She sang in Spanish to put me to sleep. They yelled at her for not making me go to school even though I was studying at home. I was excellent at everything, math especially._

“I always had a talent for that, too,” said Jeremiah, before he could stop himself. “That’s part of why I became an engineer. I didn’t spend much time with my birth family. I left and got adopted when I was ten. They sent me to a private school—St. Ignatius.”

 _That’s sad, but coincidental!_ Martín replied excitedly. _I was ten when Oswald adopted me, and that’s where I go to school!_

Jeremiah looked up from the notebook, staring at the boy. He took a long, long swig of coffee.

Martín set down the pen and took a slow breath. “I rea—read about Bruce. He’s—he’s like us.”

Nodding, Jeremiah took his mug over to the sink. He left it, composed himself, and went back.

“I can think of several ways in which you might mean that,” he told the boy, finding that he didn’t have to force a cautious smile. “I need to make him breakfast now, but I hope we can talk more about this soon. Thank you for being so candid.”

 _You need friends_ , Martín scrawled, _and nobody appreciates your work._ He tapped his chin, smiling ruefully in return. _Except me and Bruce?_

“Once upon a time, Harley did,” Jeremiah said wistfully. “That, like most fairytales, came to an end.”

 _Be polite to her_ , Martín replied, shoving the last of his Pop-Tart crusts in his mouth. _She’ll be polite back, and maybe like you again eventually._

Mulling over their entirely extraordinary dialogue on his way to the fridge, Jeremiah paused.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, reaching for the door, “how did Mr. Cobblepot find you?”

“Orphanage,” Martín said, brushing off his hands. He picked up his plate and took it to the sink.

“No,” Jeremiah said, watching the boy retrieve his notebook, “I meant more, how did he know—”

Martín grinned widely, flipping to a blank page. He wrote with a flourish and turned it around.

_How did he know we were the same? He saw me trying to set my bullies’ backpacks on fire._

_Hey_ , Jerome said conspiratorially, nudging the insides of Jeremiah’s ribs. _I like this kid._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, ahead of them on the snow-covered road, dressed in some of Bruce’s childhood winter garb, Martín looked like any other child flanked by a pair of doting sisters or aunts. Or parents, Jeremiah allowed, knowing what Harley and Ivy were to each other.

Jeremiah and Bruce lagged several yards behind, taking turns towing the sled on which they were loading plunder. Making the rounds of the Palisades’ abandoned residences had been Ivy’s idea, which was no surprise given how Bruce had said she was wont to survive.

When Jeremiah faltered on a patch of ice, hobbled by the rope looped around his wrist and the load behind him, Bruce paused, too, and took over.

“They haven’t tried to run,” Jeremiah observed, pleased with their loot, “and they have a sharp eye for things we missed the first time around.”

“That’s what Ivy’s good at,” Bruce huffed, his breath a puff of amusement in the frozen air.

“Ecco—Ms. Eccles always had an eye for the things I’d miss,” Jeremiah replied. “Largely the last-minute practical. My shopping lists were thorough, but she’d always know what I forgot just by doing a quick visual sweep of the space before she left.”

“Well, we obviously missed an entire half-case of strawberry Pop-Tarts in the Elliots’ pantry.”

Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder at their cargo, realizing they wouldn’t be able to fit much more. The remainder of the sled’s surface area was covered in canned goods, which would extend the life of their stockpile for another several weeks.

“Hey, are we almost back to yours?” Ivy shouted over her shoulder. “The kiddo’s getting tired.”

“Not true!” Martín laughed aloud, racing ahead at a clip faster than any of them could manage.

“What’s up that drive he’s headin’ for?” Harley asked. “We haven’t been to that place, right?”

Jeremiah decided to let Bruce field the question; his thoughts had turned back to what a dazzling bundle of contradictions Martín seemed to embody. He preferred to communicate nonverbally, and yet he’d uttered a handful of words and phrases without prompting or coercion.

“No,” Bruce said. “This residence has been empty for a while, almost as far back as I can remember. I’m surprised the city never condemned it.”

Leaving the sled at the foot of the driveway, the four of them followed Martín’s trail up to the derelict mansion’s front door. Smaller than Wayne Manor by far, it must have been abandoned somewhere in the range of ten years ago. The white exterior was dingy and moss-patched.

The front door hung open, evidence that Martín had taken the initiative and gone directly inside.

“Wow,” Ivy said, leading their procession through the frigid, dust-ridden living area. “These folks were total packrats. Just look at all this _stuff_.”

Jeremiah hung behind with Bruce as Harley rushed ahead with Ivy to investigate the kitchen.

“I don’t seem to recall anything of value here,” he mused. “Certainly not much that was edible.”

Bruce shrugged. “We found evidence of squatters at one point. They cleaned everything out.”

Ivy rushed out of the kitchen with a stack of terracotta flower pots in hand, followed by Harley, who’d collected the second stack. They seemed to have acquired an inscrutable sense of purpose.

“We’d better follow the peanut gallery,” Jeremiah muttered, taking Bruce’s hand. “Come on.”

The residence’s interior rooms led through to what, if he recalled correctly, was a greenhouse.

“Ah,” Bruce said as they emerged into the glass-paneled, sun-gilded interior. “I forgot about…”

“I knew it,” Ivy said, handing half her stack of pots to a relocated Martín so that he and Harley could help her set them out at intervals on one of the detritus-strewn tables. “They were definitely gardening freaks. This place must’ve looked amazing back in the day!”

Bruce tugged Jeremiah to a stop and kissed him, startlingly forward gesture given their company.

“This doesn’t feel real sometimes,” he said, rather subdued even though he was almost smiling.

“That I’m here with you, period,” Jeremiah ventured, “or the present bizarre circumstances?”

Tilting his head, Bruce adjusted Jeremiah’s hat, tinted glasses, and the scarf around his neck.

“All of it,” Bruce said. “Like it’s a fever-dream I’ll wake from eventually, but don’t want to.”

“I hope not,” Jeremiah replied with bitterness. “I already woke up from one I shouldn’t have.”

Bruce drew Jeremiah’s hands to his chest, but didn’t release them, intently studying their gloves.

“Something about your nightmare that unsettled you more than it should have. What was it?”

 _So are you gonna come clean_ , Jerome taunted, _or are you gonna keep our little secret?_

“You wish,” Jeremiah seethed, and then glanced up when he saw Bruce’s eyes subtly widen.

“Jeremiah?” Bruce asked uncertainly, squeezing Jeremiah’s hands in order to make him focus.

“This is going to sound like cause for concern,” Jeremiah said, “but that wasn’t directed at you.”

As if he understood, Bruce nodded slowly. “There are things in my head I can’t escape, either.”

“But yours don’t drive you to treating intrusive thoughts like an entity with a will of its own.”

Drawing Jeremiah’s hands up to his lips, Bruce kissed the backs of them with reassuring intent.

“Jerome is dead,” he murmured with absolute conviction. “I know he’s gone, and so do you.”

Jeremiah nodded without hesitation. “Yes, I do. But I made the mistake of resurrecting him.”

“The only place he’s still a threat,” Bruce sighed, “will be hardest to clear. I know that, too.”

“Hey, guys!” Harley shouted, breaking their reverie. “You wanna help with cleanin’ or what?”

“Cleaning?” Jeremiah echoed, pulling his hands away, letting them drop. “Why should we?”

“I made an executive decision,” Ivy said, handing Martín a rake. “We’re taking over this place.”

Bruce chewed his lip, calculating the risk of giving them autonomy. “Why go to the trouble?”

“Think about it,” Harley said, taking the rake from Martín, sending him toward Jeremiah with a kiss to the top of his head. “If we can get this place up to code, it’ll be ours! Ivy can have her plants and everything. I can decorate it.”

 _You would be my neighbors_ , Martín spelled painstakingly. _I could visit all of you._

“What your fathers will or will not allow very much hangs in the balance,” Jeremiah warned.

“We need to tell them,” Bruce said, lapsing into perturbed sternness. “Sooner than later.”

 _No_ , Martín signed, tugging pleadingly on Bruce’s scarf. _Not yet. Too much fun._

 _Fun_ , Jerome echoed idly. _There’s another point on which squirt and I agree._

“This is just another game to you,” Jeremiah snapped, turning his back to Bruce and Martín.

Martín’s gasp was gentled by some action from Bruce, perhaps a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid,” Bruce said firmly. “He’s…haunted, kind of, in his mind. It’ll pass soon.”

“Ed,” remarked Martín, plaintively, his pitch of emotion enough to make Jeremiah turn back.

“Honey,” Harley said, raking her pile of dead leaves closer to the boy. “You don’t need to talk.”

Jeremiah watched, motionless as Martín signed an entire string of letters at her without pause.

“I think you remind him of what his family’s been through,” Bruce said, stepping close again.

Harley stared menacingly at Jeremiah and Bruce over Martín’s head as the boy clung to her.

“I really hope you guys don’t think it’s all fun and games,” she said. “This is wearin’ on him.”

“I’m willing to leave you to your work here,” Bruce said, “but it’s too cold for a child to stay.”

Martín let go of Harley, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and signed to Jeremiah. _It’s okay._

Cautiously, Jeremiah nodded at him, offering his hand. “No harm will come to you. I promise.”

Accepting Jeremiah’s hand, Martín shook it vigorously, eyes glinting. _You had better_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next four days, Harley and Ivy made themselves scarce between the hours of about seven o’clock in the morning and five o’clock in the evening. Granting them the plundered canned goods and a third of the pastries had been a peacekeeping concession.

In the mornings, Jeremiah grudgingly made sure he and Bruce were in the kitchen by nine o’clock so that Martín wouldn’t have to make his own coffee. Attempting to switch up what the boy ate was futile, because he wouldn’t touch anything except Pop-Tarts.

Evenings fell into a routine resembling the prickliest family-dinner arrangements imaginable.

Jeremiah continued to mind the marinara sauce while Bruce carried finished pasta to the table.

 _Are you doing this because you think it’d make Mom proud?_ Jerome asked scathingly.

“Already did that,” Jeremiah muttered thinly, “just by accomplishing what you never could.”

Bruce returned to the stove, took the ladle out of Jeremiah’s hand, and turned off the heat.

“I know it’s been a bad day,” he said, sliding an arm around Jeremiah’s waist as he set the ladle back in the pan. “Go sit down.” He kissed Jeremiah’s neck. “I’ll finish up.”

Jeremiah nodded, extracting himself politely from Bruce’s embrace. “No worse than yesterday.”

When the bell indicating someone at the front door chimed, Martín stopped setting the table and dashed out to go answer it. The girls were fifteen minutes late; he’d been anxious.

By the time Martín led them into the kitchen, Jeremiah and Bruce had already served themselves.

“Thanks for sendin’ the kid up when you coulda served him first,” Harley said, claiming the seat across from Bruce to make it obvious she was talking to him. “Real mature.”

“He was on his way to greet the two of you before we could do anything about it,” Bruce replied.

Ivy settled Martín at the head of the table and served him before taking the seat across from Jeremiah. Her grin suggested that the sniping next to them was world-class entertainment.

“Never a dull moment with those hotheads. And they say _we’re_ the ones to worry about?”

“If you mean gingers,” Jeremiah said, winding more spaghetti around his fork, “then I’d say Gotham has had plenty of cause for concern.”

“Yeah, that was your brother all by himself,” said Ivy, using her fingers to make sure the noodles she’d pinched in the tongs made it onto her plate.

Bruce shot her a displeased sidelong glance and sipped his wine. “That’s not up for discussion.”

 _Tell my brother-in-law-to-be I’m offended he won’t let bygones be bygones_ , Jerome said.

Jeremiah swallowed the bite he’d taken and washed it down with what was left of his half-glass.

“Hey, J,” Harley said, pointing to his cell phone on the edge of the table, “someone’s textin’ ya.”

Wisely, Bruce picked it up and fielded the message for him. “It’s from Barbara. She has news.”

Martín made an anxious sound into his glass of water, signing, _Tell us and get it over with._

Jeremiah set down his glass and glanced over as Bruce scrolled through the lengthy missive.

“Oswald’s making the operation a living hell for government troops,” Bruce said, fixing Martín with a grave look. “He’s tearing up already secured parts of the city looking for you.”

“Great,” Ivy said, grabbing the quarter-full chianti bottle and chugging it. “They’re gonna get fed up with Pengy’s bullshit and bomb us to rubble.”

Glancing at Martín, Jeremiah saw anguish on the boy’s face. “It’s no fault of yours he’s reckless.”

 _No, but my fault we might die,_ he spelled painstakingly, appealing silently to Harley.

“Jesus, that’s enough,” Harley said, wiping her mouth. “Martín, honey, go upstairs and pack.”

The boy scrambled out of his chair and dashed off, obviously relieved to have been excused.

Jeremiah watched Ivy finish stuffing her face as Harley, already standing, looked on impatiently.

“Guess we’re takin’ the kid tonight,” she said, dropping her napkin as she rose. “We got heat.”

“It’s probably safer,” Bruce said, handing Jeremiah his phone. “They’d strike the Manor first.”

Jeremiah sighed, too conflicted over Barbara’s intel to protest. “Bring him back in the morning.”

 _Gotta say_ , Jerome remarked, _this has been a morbidly fascinating custody battle._

While Bruce escorted Harley and Ivy up to collect Martín and see them all off, Jeremiah did his level best to ignore Jerome’s intrusions and do what needed to be done. He brought up a blank text and stared at it, choosing Edward’s number as the recipient.

Before he knew it, he’d been staring at the screen for a full ten minutes, and Bruce had returned.

Coming up behind Jeremiah, Bruce snapped the phone shut and put it in his pocket. “Finished?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said, relieved, pushing his plate forward. “I couldn’t eat any more if I tried.”

“How’re you doing?” Bruce asked quietly, massaging the back of Jeremiah’s neck. “Is it quiet?”

“Silent as the grave,” Jeremiah said, knowing choice of words could have power. “And you?”

“Worried about how we’ve handled this,” Bruce admitted, “but don’t want to think about it.”

Decisively, Jeremiah eased Bruce’s hand off his neck, rose, and kissed him. “Then don’t.”

“You’re the only one who can take my mind off things, too, it looks like,” Bruce murmured.

They went upstairs without another word, uncharacteristically leaving the dishes unattended.

Bruce didn’t seem inclined to do more than lie back while Jeremiah kissed his neck, unbuttoned his shirt, and tangled his fingers in their silver chains. Sweet and pliant, he didn’t protest the fact that Jeremiah was taking an excruciating amount of time to undress them.

Once they were naked, Jeremiah straddled Bruce and kissed the faint scar on his right cheek.

“I could do the nice thing you did for me,” he whispered. “Ride you until you can’t think.”

“Doesn’t matter what you do,” Bruce whispered back, smiling. “My head’s already empty.”

 _Yeah, but yours isn’t,_ Jerome goaded. _Tie him up, fuck him, and slit his throat_.

Enraged, Jeremiah bit his lower lip to keep from answering aloud. He rolled off Bruce and reached for the nightstand, knocking almost everything else off it in his rush to find the lotion they’d been using since their other supplies had run out.

 _You could do it the other way around_ , Jerome continued, _but still tie him up first._

Bruce furrowed his brow as he watched Jeremiah rush through preparing himself, his hands sure and steady at Jeremiah’s hips. He was desperately aroused already, shaking with the effort of holding back.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, lifting one hand to press it meaningfully against Jeremiah’s temple.

Jeremiah closed his eyes tightly while Bruce helped him get into position. “He won’t shut up.”

Bruce took hold of Jeremiah’s hips again, nails digging unrelentingly as he pushed up into him.

Dizzy with the exquisite burn of it, Jeremiah nodded, his mind reeling blank. “Bruce, _more_.”

“You’re mine,” said Bruce, roughly, right in Jeremiah’s ear. “Nobody else’s. Not even his.”

“No,” Jeremiah gasped, seized by Bruce’s jolt into action, pinning Bruce flat. “Never his.”

Twisting under him, Bruce tested Jeremiah’s hold on his wrists and groaned in approval.

Jeremiah kissed him fierce and deep, too achingly on-edge to do anything but whimper.

“Stay with me,” Bruce said, snapping his hips with calculated suddenness. “Don’t let him—”

“I won’t,” Jeremiah rasped, chasing the tremor that passed between them. “I _can’t_.”

Succumbing to pleasure this way was different than when Bruce had lain him down and done the same thing he was doing now. Intensity of feeling made him curl forward and lock down, his shout so embarrassingly loud that he was glad they’d cleared the house.

Bruce was far too quiet when he came, but his bitten-off cry was unmistakably Jeremiah’s name.

 _Not yours_ , Jeremiah thought. He clung to Bruce while they stickily shifted to get comfortable and struggled to catch their breaths. _Never yours_.

Jerome had nothing by way of reply, not even while Bruce cleaned them up and kissed Jeremiah’s forehead.

“You know I’ve made my choice,” Bruce said, keeping his lips there. “I won’t leave again.”

Jeremiah slept for a while. He woke to the feel of Bruce’s fingers combing through his hair.

“Sorry to wake you,” Bruce murmured. “Have you texted Ed yet? If not, I think it’s time.”

“Was about to,” Jeremiah yawned, reassured at Bruce’s even tone. “When you came back.”

“My mistake,” Bruce replied, kissing his forehead. “I thought you had. Go back to sleep.”

“Won’t take a minute,” Jeremiah said, reaching over the side of the bed. “My phone’s in…”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Bruce said, catching his arm, tugging it back beside him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Jeremiah rested uneasily while Bruce ticked his way through about ten minutes of an ominously silent message exchange. He finally tossed the phone back on the floor and lay down, tugging up the covers.

“They’re coming tomorrow, no idea how,” Bruce sighed. “They said Martín had better be alive.”

“No matter what,” Jeremiah said, “we've had each other three months and answered to no one.”

“I know that,” Bruce replied, regret tinting his voice, “but I want you longer. I played for keeps.”

Drifting off, relieved that it was now out of their hands, Jeremiah held him fast.

 _Do you really think this is over?_ Jerome asked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“No,” Jeremiah wheezed, doubled over only for as long as it took him to grasp the knife and yank it free. “I don’t.”

“Huh,” said Jerome, deadpan, cautiously putting his hands up. “Didn’t think you’d fight back.”

“That was always your biggest mistake when it came to me,” Jeremiah said, advancing on him.

Jerome grinned and met him head-on, grabbing Jeremiah’s wrist on his first attempted lunge.

“You don’t have the guts,” he cackled, twisting Jeremiah’s wrist until the knife’s point grazed the corner of his mouth, “seeing as the cat you _failed_ to kill clawed them out. You’ve never had the nerve to be yourself. You’ve only ever been an echo, a mimic—easily molded! That’s the real reason you ran away, isn’t it? So you could _try_ to be your own—”

Jeremiah passed the knife to his left hand and shoved the blade up beneath Jerome’s jaw, pinning Jerome’s tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“I never did like the way you talked to Mom,” he said with calm satisfaction, releasing the knife’s handle.

Jerome staggered and fell flat on his back, his last laugh a wild-eyed gurgle. He scrabbled at the knife handle in an attempt to remove it, but Jeremiah was on him in a flash, hindering him before he could succeed.

“And I _certainly_ ,” Jeremiah continued, pulling the knife free, jamming it through Jerome’s right eye socket, “didn’t like the way you looked at Bruce.”

Jerome lay as still as he had the day he’d fallen to his death, his left eye empty and wide.

Jeremiah shivered awake, covered in sweat, uncertain how much time had really passed.

The body sprawled beneath him was Bruce—warm and alive, snoring faintly into the crook of Jeremiah’s neck.

Brightness streamed through the windows, an uneasy indicator that they’d slept away the night.

“Sunshine,” Jeremiah whispered, turning his head to nuzzle Bruce’s cheek, “it’s showtime.”

“Ugh,” Bruce groaned, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut. “No. I’m not ready for this.”

Once he’d hauled Bruce out of bed and left him grumbling under a hot shower, Jeremiah fetched his phone from where Bruce had dropped it the previous evening. He hit speed-dial.

“Ain’t it early for you guys?” Harley said on pick-up. Something sizzled in the background.

“I hope what I’m hearing is breakfast,” Jeremiah said, “because you’ll need to get here ASAP.”

“What’s the rush?” Harley asked, flipping whatever she had in the skillet. “You got plans?”

“No, but Penguin and his cronies could arrive at any time,” Jeremiah replied. “If we want to stay alive, it’s contingent upon proving we’ve kept the boy in that very condition.”

“Oh _jeez_ ,” Harley groaned, as if it were a garden-variety annoyance. “There goes the day!”

Jeremiah hung up on her and joined Bruce in the shower, unhappily rushing them through it.

While they muddled their way through getting dressed, Jeremiah’s phone lit up with two texts in rapid succession. One was from Ivy, saying they were on their way; the other was from Edward, saying he sure as hell hoped their helicopter would be able to land without incident.

“By _incident_ ,” Bruce said, straightening Jeremiah’s tie for him, “he means _bazooka_.”

Jeremiah wasn’t pleased about foregoing cosmetics, but his hat, sunglasses, and scarf would cover a multitude of sins.

Bruce donned his own hat and gloves just in time for the doorbell to ring. He answered it.

“No time for chit-chat,” Ivy shouted, yanking them both outside by their sleeves. “Look!”

Harley and Martín weren’t far off, shading their eyes as they watched the helicopter descend.

“Suitably dramatic,” Jeremiah said loudly, holding his hat in place. “Not sure what I expected!”

“You’ll get used to it,” Bruce replied, drawing his Colt as the aircraft made an impressively clean landing. “C’mon!”

Firearms in hand, they walked ahead of their charges and opened the gate. The detonator in Jeremiah’s pocket felt heavy, no sure solace.

“Ivy, listen,” Bruce said, not bothering to glance over his shoulder. “Keep them behind us.”

Jeremiah heard Harley whisper to Martín, but the parties disembarking from the helicopter had his full attention. Not counting the pilot, there were two more than he’d expected.

“I sure hope you two have an explanation for this,” said Jim Gordon, his gun trained on Bruce.

“Yeah,” agreed Harvey Bullock, taking parallel aim at Jeremiah. “You didn’t mention _them_.”

“I mentioned them in my messages to Edward last night,” Bruce said, staring past the officers to where Oswald and Edward were clinging to each other in relief. “It’s not my fault they neglected to tell you Ms. Eccles and Ms. Pepper rescued their son from that firefight and fled down the tunnel, which either your men or the government bombed.”

“How Martín got here is immaterial!” Oswald shouted reproachfully. “Give me one reason I—”

“We’ll let you leave without blowing the place sky-high because the child’s here,” Jeremiah said. “That was part of our terms, which Bruce laid out quite clearly. Mr. Nygma accepted, but _he_ didn’t mention anything about involving the GCPD.”

Martín ran from where Harley and Ivy had been detaining him. He came to a halt between Jeremiah and Bruce, signing at his parents in defiance.

“Detectives,” said Edward, after a minute’s back-and-forth with his son, stepping forward to set a hand on Jim’s shoulder, “your weapons, please.”

“You better tell us what he was saying,” Harvey said, lowering his gun, “and you better not lie.”

Oswald marched right up to Harvey’s side. “Martín said that everything you’ve been told is true, and—unbelievable though it may sound, even to _me_ —he’s been treated well.”

“You left out the part where he said he ran away because we were arguing,” Edward said flatly.

“Time and _place_ , Ed!” Oswald snapped testily. “I didn’t exactly feel that was relevant!”

Jeremiah caught Martín to hold him back, an impulse so protective that Bruce gave him an amazed, questioning stare. He let the boy proceed.

“Case,” said Martín, accusingly, stopping just shy of Jim and Harvey, “in p—point. See?”

Oswald grabbed Edward’s arm for support. His eyes and Edward’s had gone so wide that it didn’t take Jeremiah long to understand. Either they’d never heard their son speak, or they’d never heard him speak several consecutive words.

Martín turned back toward Jeremiah, spelling a question. _Will they shoot you if I go?_

“No,” Jeremiah said, fixing Jim with a cold stare. “Nobody’s going to shoot. You go on.”

“This is all well and good,” Jim said, “but why should the government let you off the hook?”

“Simple,” Bruce said. “In exchange for our services in Gotham’s reconstruction, you won’t lay a finger on us— _or_ on Ms. Eccles and Ms. Pepper, for that matter. Wayne Enterprises will be the sole contractor, free of charge. We expect the full cooperation of local, state, and Federal officials.”

“I can’t fuckin’ believe this,” Harvey said miserably, rubbing his forehead. “Jim, you can’t—”

“I assume _we_ indicates that your company intends to re-hire Mr. Valeska?” Jim asked.

“We love this city, Commissioner.  You and—” Bruce flicked his eyes to Oswald, calculating “—Interim Mayor Cobblepot won’t find anyone capable of faster _or_ finer delivery.”

“Commissioner?” Jim scoffed, his eyebrows hitting the clouds. “Mayor? How do you figure?”

“He’ll insist on it,” Jeremiah said, watching Martín squash both of his parents in a single hug, “for your valor in our time of need.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Harvey said, clawing at his eyes. “This is all a bad dream.”

Jeremiah smiled at Gordon, already certain that he understood, and then glanced at Edward.

“This is the most obnoxious negotiation I’ve ever seen!” Oswald snapped. “I don’t think so!”

Edward elbowed him. “Our clever, if explosives-happy friends have a point,” he muttered. “You know the job, and I know how to support you in it.”

“There you are,” Bruce said, beaming at Martín, who’d begun to look excited. “Chief of Staff.”

Jim looked furious enough to open fire. Instead, he turned to Oswald, grim and restrained.

“Know what, Oswald?” he asked, understatedly vicious. “It’ll suit you. The City of Gotham thanks you for stepping up during this delicate transition.”

Jeremiah watched Martín sign urgently and excitedly at Edward, who sighed and translated aloud.

“My fathers love this city, too. Ms. Eccles and Ms. Pepper saved my life, and so did Mr. Wayne and Mr. Valeska. I want my family to rebuild Gotham.”

“Well, I guess that settles it,” said Oswald, in weary, resigned exasperation.  “Who am I to say no to my husband, the Commissioner, _and_ Gotham's latest precocious twelve-year-old?”

“I know Ivy, obviously, but who the hell is Ms. Eccles?” Harvey blurted, sick of being left out.

“Jeremiah’s former assistant," Jim sighed. “Harley Eccles, known as Ecco. We questioned her.”

“Don’t call her that next time you see her," Bruce said.  "She’s gone back to using her name.”

“Ms. Eccles,” Jim said, catching her eye over Bruce’s shoulder, “can you confirm or deny what’s been said here, up to and including what they claim your involvement was?”

“Sure,” Harley said, throwing an arm around Ivy. “All of it. An’ this is the girlfriend I mentioned when you guys had me at the station on New Year’s, in case you didn’t believe me.”

Jim was nodding unhappily to himself as he turned to say something under his breath to Harvey.

“If you need a lift back to the city proper,” Jeremiah said, turning to the girls, “ask for it now.”

“Nah,” Ivy said, squeezing Harley. “We live out here, remember? More food would be good, though.”

“It’ll probably take the troops a few days to clear the rivers and get ferry routes established,” Bruce said. “We’ll send some home with you.”

“Yay!” Harley said, winding her fingers in Ivy’s coat. “C’mon, let’s wait inside. I’m freezin’!”

“Gentlemen, are we done here?” Oswald interjected. “My son is cold, tired, and misses his dog.”

While Harvey helped Edward get Oswald and Martín settled in the helicopter, Jim approached Jeremiah and Bruce. His demeanor was sobering.

“You’re going to get your way, because I know the government doesn’t want to pay for the mess,” he said disdainfully. “I guess that’s appropriate, given you’re the ones who made it.”

“Have the relevant officials contact me,” Bruce said. “We’ll get the ball rolling once you do.”

Jim turned his back on them without further commentary and strode to the helicopter. They watched it lift off and cross the river, neither one of them daring to speak until it vanished from sight.

Jeremiah turned away from the distant skyline as Bruce set a red-gloved hand on his shoulder.

“You were right,” Bruce said, leaning close. “Together, we’ll see Gotham rise.”

“True, but don’t forget the part about our happy ending,” Jeremiah replied.


End file.
